


Stockholm Symphony

by zeraparker



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Consensual Sex, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lucille - Freeform, M/M, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: Canon Divergence: Lori and Shane arrive at Carl's school only to find it abandoned and no sign of the kid. Years later, Rick finds his boy behind enemy lines.Picks up at 6.16/7.01. Rating, tags and warnings will be updated as the story progresses.Arc I:  1 - 6 First Impressions are Important





	1. // Ouverture //

**Author's Note:**

> So the wonderful [Gemjam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam) (go read her stuff, it's amazing) and me bounced around ideas for fics as usual on skype and this scenario got stuck in our heads, festering like a virus so we both gave it a shot. I hope she'll get around to finishing her version and posting it soon because I'm sure it'll be awesome and well, the more fics the merrier.
> 
>  
> 
> This story will be structured in arcs, the first one that I'm posting now will be 4 chapters long and is already written in its entirety, currently being edited. I have two more arcs planned of probably similar length and will add them as soon as I got each one finished.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm playing fast and lose with musical terms as titles for my chapters, picking them as I see them fit with the core theme of each chapter. They're not all directly related to each other and picked from a variety of music genres, so please bare with me.

“Thank you so much for doing this for me,” Lori says as she opens the door. She looks strained, her hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes that even the strong cup of coffee Shane can smell from the kitchen won't remove. She lifts her hand to her forehead, and for a moment he thinks she's going to cry. “Carl,” she calls out into the depth of the house. “Come on, don't let Shane wait.”

Heavy steps on the stairs precede the boy's slouch down to the ground floor. He's pulling a face in annoyance. “I don't want to go.”

“Yes, you're going, I've packed your lunch, go get your bag,” Lori says, heading for the open kitchen door. Shane steps over the threshold into the house, giving Carl a small smile.

“Hey buddy. Come on, you don't want to be late for school.”

“But I don't want to go! I want to go see Dad!” Carl insists, crossing his arms over his chest. His blue eyes are glassy and Shane wonders if he's going to cry.

“Carl, listen,” Shane says, hunching down to be on eye level with the boy. “Your dad is still asleep. It would be no help you sitting around his room, okay? You think he'd want you to miss school for that?” He glances up, watching Lori return and picking up Carl's backpack from beside the stairs, stuffing his metal lunch box inside. “Come on, buddy, you can sit in the front if you want.” He pushes himself to his feet, taking Carl's backpack when the boy makes no move for it. His fingers graze Lori's and he locks eyes with her, trying to give her some strength. “You be alright?”

“Yes- no,” she says, rubbing her forehead again. “There'll be that meeting at the townhall at noon, about that epidemic from the news, will you be there?”

Shane nods, grasping her wrist and squeezing softly. “Yeah, of course.” He lets go of her wrist and takes a step closer to Carl, patting his shoulder. “I've got him, okay? I'll be at the station after I've dropped him off, if you need anything.” He waits for Lori's nod, then gives Carl's shoulder a gently push. “Come on, buddy.”

Carl is 80 pounds of righteous anger wrapped into his school jacket and wrinkled jeans as he slumps his way down the drive to the car Shane parked on the side of the road, his eyes going to the sky as another helicopter flies close above the tree tops and roofs towards the hospital, the area heavily warded by an ever increasing military presence since the outbreak of that strange virus the news kept talking about despite all they're having just rumours so far, nightmare stories no one wants to believe. He takes a step ahead, holding open the passenger door for Carl to get in to the car and buckle up before he walks around it to the other side, placing Carl's backpack on the back seat before he settles behind the wheel.

They drive in silence through the steady morning traffic, the radio turned on to doodle lowly in the background. It's better than the non-words Carl is glaring at him across the middle console of the car from time to time. The way isn't long, so despite the boy's earlier resistance they arrive with a little time to spare as Shane pulls the car into one of the parking bays in front of the school. Carl makes no attempt to move.

“Come on, buddy, don't make this hard on yourself,” Shane says after a long moment, sighing as he sits forwards, arms resting on top of the steering wheel. “I know-”

“You don't know nothing,” Carl murmurs, his face turned towards his lap.

“You think I don't care about your dad? He's my best friend too, you know. Hell, I been thinking about him every day and wish he'd be sitting where you are now,” Shane admits, watching Carl's shoulders shake lightly. He sighs again. “You gotta be strong, okay? It's what your dad would want. What he expects. Be strong and take care of your mum. You're giving her a hard time on top of a hard time.”

Carl's head whips up at that, the glare he catches Shane with angry and watery.

“Your dad's gonna be okay, right? So don't worry. He'll wake up any day now and then you can go see him at the hospital until he's released and he can take you to school instead of me. But until then you need to be good for your mum, she's worried enough already. Go to school, listen to your teachers, eat your vegetables, and none of that strutting around like your cat drowned, okay?”

He turns around, reaching between the car seats to pick up Carl's backpack when his eyes land on Rick's spare hat he's been driving around with for weeks now. On a whim, he stretches, fishing it from the seat with his fingers.

“You gotta be the man for your family until your dad is back up and running, okay?” he says pushing the hat onto Carl's head. “You wear that today. Your mum'll pick you up later and you gonna tell her you did good at school, all right?”

Carl doesn't answer but he accepts the backpack Shane puts on his lap, his fingers grasping the handle tightly. Outside, the bell rings, signalling for the kids to move off the yard and into the building, ten minutes until the first class starts, and Carl opens the door of the car, looking back over his shoulder. There's no anger in his gaze anymore, just sadness and for a split second Shane wants to call him back, wrap him in a tight hug, but Carl slams the door shut and quickly walks up the path to the school gates, being swallowed by the crowd around him.

 

“I've got to get Carl, I've got to get Rick, I-”

Shane grabs Lori by the arms, stopping her in her panicked rambling on their way out of the townhall to the parking lot. “No, we need to make a plan, not just run around like crazy chicken,” he insists, lurching to the side as he's jostled by a group of people elbowing past towards their parked cars.

Tears are streaming down Lori's face, her hair looking wild. A broken sound escapes her lips. Shane wants to kiss her.

“You need to pack. Everything you need. Nothing you don't. Enough for you and Carl to keep going for a while. He needs you to be prepared, okay?” Shane places his hands on either side of her face, making her focus. “I'm going to the hospital. They said they'll start there. I'll be quicker and get Rick. They won't march into the school, they're soldiers not monsters. Carl will be save there until we get him.” Lori is still staring blankly at him, her face twisted in fear. “Lori, you hear me? I'll get Rick, and then we get Carl and leave.”

Lori starts nodding, shakily but more firmly after another moment, gathering herself. “Okay.”

“Okay, good. Move then. Move!” Shane shouts as they start hurrying along with the throng of people.

 

There's columns of smoke rising from the direction of the hospital; Shane can still smell it on his clothes, along with the chemical stench of the hospital itself. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to dispel the image of Rick's lifeless body left behind on his hospital bed. He hopes Rick felt no pain, that it was quick, that he never opened his eyes after all.

“Carl!” Lori shouts the second they stop the car in front of the school, her door flying open immediately to send her hurrying over the grass towards the main gate. “Carl!”

Shane isn't far behind her, but something feels off. There's barely any sound, just the rumble of cars speeding past on the road, the distant shots of gunfire and crackling fire, the low thud of explosions.

The gates to the school are open, the yard deserted. No kids are playing on the swings that are swaying creakily on the other side of the yard.

“Carl!”

“Where's his classroom?” Shane asks as he catches up with her, getting his bearings.

Lori spins around, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She already lost her husband today. “Second floor, main building,” she answers, her voice breaking before she turns towards the big glass doors leading inside. They're unlocked, their steps echoing over the tiled floor, through the long, empty hallways. “No no no,” she gasps, her voice rising again to call out for her son in desperation, echoing from the high ceilings.

The stairs are lined with drawings, left behind jackets and hats on hooks in between the doors leading to the classrooms. Some of the doors are closed, others ripped open, allowing glimpses into empty rooms. Shane remembers having been in the school like this once, years ago, after a fire alarm that turned out to be a prank had removed all the pupils from their lessons to wait outside in the yard until the fire department and the sheriffs office had pronounced the building safe to return to. He remembers the visuals, but the sound of groups of pupils playing in the yard while they were waiting is missing, the rhythmic ringing of the school bell, the shouts from teachers calling them to order.

They're gone.


	2. // Exposition I. //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pissing our pants yet?” Negan asks, a devilish smile tugging on his wide mouth as he calmly runs his eyes along Rick's group before he steps closer. “Boy, do I get the feeling we're getting close."
> 
> Ep 6.16/7.01

The forest floor is hard beneath Rick's knees. They're kneeling in a messy row, all lined up like cattle for slaughter, barrels of guns pointed at their heads. That's it, that's where they'll die, defenceless, shown off, made an example for the merry bunch of assholes with their fingers on the trigger. Revenge for the men they killed at the satellite station. There were more, of course there were more, a whole army more, and Rick should have seen it coming, should have been prepared and ready to take them, not being lead around by the nose until he'd run right into their open arms.

At least he hopes it will be over quick. A bullet to the head might be one of the most merciful deaths one could hope for this far down the line. If they draw it out, he hopes it will only be him they'll dice up, leave the rest alive or kill quickly.

Rick thinks of the people left behind in Alexandria, about Judith; if they'll be save or if these men's revenge will leave more blood on Rick's hands, even after death. He'd become foolish, grown soft in the feigned security provided by Alexandria's walls, cocky from their time on the road, from how easily other groups folded before their combined force. He shouldn't have jumped to Hilltop's offer, should have asked more questions, waited and scouted out their enemy instead of blundering into their territory. Should have should have should have. It's an endless cycle inside his head as they're waiting there, kneeling, and he wants to scream, to act and just get it over with.

He glances around, trying not to move his head too much, to Abraham stoically kneeling, Sasha glowering on his other side, down the line to Enid glaring openly and unafraid back at every one of those bastards circling them, along the other side of the circle to Simon, and Maggie next to him who's getting paler by the minute, her body shaking visibly with the strain to hold herself up and not collapse from fever and exhaustion. They're his friends, his family, so many of them on their knees, and none of them deserving the fate waiting for them. Eugene is there too, the RV parked on the other end of the clearing, his face swollen and bloody.

“Come on, got people to meet,” one of the bastards says and Rick twists his head, his heart beating faster with a mix of relief and anger at seeing Michonne, Rosita, Daryl and Glenn being dragged out of one of the waiting cars.

“Maggie?” Glenn gasps out as he's pushed to his knees in line with them, and Rick can feel her starting to shake more violently, her stifled sobs. 

“Alright, we got a full boat,” their leader says as he steps up in front of the RV, smirking as he looks them all up and down. It's the guy they had met at the first road block that morning, so far back now, the one who had talked to them and spray painted the x onto the poor soul that had been hung from the bridge later. He seems to be higher up in the hackling order, and Rick follows him with weary eyes as he moves towards the RV's door. 

“Let's meet the man,” he announces and Rick's stomach drops. Rap rap rap, knuckles knocking against the plastic door hollowly before he steps to the side, waiting.

The door of the RV opens. This must be him, Negan, their big boss, the man in who's name the people at Hilltop had suffered, the man who's name had been given by the merchants they'd killed at the satellite station and before. He's tall, broad shoulders dressed in a leather jacket and carrying a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire saunters down the stairs. 

“Pissing our pants yet?” Negan asks, a devilish smile tugging on his wide mouth as he calmly runs his eyes along Rick's group before he steps closer. “Boy, do I get the feeling we're getting close,” he says, drawling out the words as he paces slowly in front of them. “Gonna be pee pee pants city here really soon.”

He stops in his tracks, gesturing languidly as his eyes move from one to the next. “Which one of you pricks is the leader?”

“This one,” the asshole they'd encountered earlier on the street and who had orchestrated their current positions says from behind them, and Rick doesn't have to see to feel him being pointed out. He doesn't raise to the bait, keeps his shoulders hunched forwards, his gaze averted. “It's the guy.”

Negan turns on the crunchy gravel, taking two measured steps towards him. “Hi. You're Rick, right? I'm Negan,” he confirms, his tone calm and with a hint of humour that makes the hair at the back of Rick's neck stand up. “And I do not appreciate you killing my men. Also when I send my people to kill your people for killing my people, you killed more of my people.” He pauses, takes a breath. “Not. Cool. Not cool. You have-” he looks to the side, at Daryl and Glenn at the far end of the line before his eyes return to Rick, the amusement shining in them earlier now replaced with cold anger. “- no idea how not cool that shit is. But, I think you're gonna be up to speed shortly.” He pauses again and Rick can't help looking up, eyes flickering to meet Negan's. 

“Yeah,” Negan muses, “you're so gonna regret crossing me in a few minutes.” Another mad smile pulls his mouth into a wide grin. “Yes you are. You see, Rick, whatever you do, no matter what, you don't mess with the new world order. New world order is this, and it's really very simple so even if you're stupid, which you very well may be, you can understand. You ready? Here it goes, pay attention.”

Negan pauses, and with a swift movement takes the baseball bat off his shoulder and passes it into his right hand. Rick can't help the flinch, moving his head to the side not to get hit on the cheek as Negan holds the barbed wired tip close to his face.

“Give me your shit, or I will kill you,” he says, leaning down and talking slowly to make very sure they all understand him clearly. “Today was career day,” he continues, straightening back up again with a smile before he starts pacing in front of them. “We invested a lot so you know who I am and what I can do,” brandishing his weapon close as he walks down the line. “You work for me now,” he says, pointing back at Rick from a couple paces away. “You have shit, you give it to me. That's your job. Now I know that's a mighty big nasty pill to swallow, but swallow it you most certainly will. You ruled the roost, you built something, you thought you were save. I get it. But, the word is out, you are not save. Not even close. In fact, you're pegged, more pegged if you don't do what I want, and what I want is have your shit. And if that's too much, you can make, find or steal more and it'll even out sooner or later.”

Rick tunes out, trying to concentrate on his own breathing as Negan rattles down his little speech, trying not to let any emotion show. This is a madman, unpredictability wafting off him in waves as he moves like a snake in front of them, appraising, watchful for any sign of weakness. He's cunning, that's for sure, or he'd never been able to assemble the kind of army he has at his disposal, and Rick would be impressed if not for the creeping fear that's bunching up his muscles in a repressed fight-or-flight response.

Fear, desperation, confusion about the turn of events. His head is spinning, and this feels so much like the first hours after his coma again, after he'd woken up and nothing had been the same. He blinks the wetness out of his eyes, sweat, something almost like the burn of helpless tears, his eyes flickering around listlessly, unsettled. Negan is moving in and out of his focus, but there's someone else starting to catch his attention, a tall, slender figure at the edge of his vision, next to the truck that had expelled Daryl, Michonne and the others earlier.

“This is your way of life now,” Negan says with a grand gesture around the clearing, at all his men obediently holding their guns and following every of Negan's words, this little production maybe at least as much a demonstration of power, of status to them as to impress Rick and his group. “The more you fight back, the harder it'll be. So someone knocks on your door, you let us in. We own that door. You try to stop us, and we will knock it down. You understand?”

Rick is shaking, trying to get a grip on the situation, his mind running in overtime to figure out how to get back a minimum of control, how to position himself to make sure the others can get away. He owes this to them, they trusted him, they followed him into this trap and every single of their lives is on Rick now. His eyes swipe towards the truck, and there she is, tall, not dressed in white like the last time he saw her, the last time his mind had played tricks on them, but among the bastards, dressed like them, shrouded in half shadows. He averts his eyes, swallows. He can't do this again.

Negan has stopped, lifts his hand to his ear and leans in theatrically. “What?” he stage whispers, “no answer? You don't really think you're gonna get through this without being punished now, did you? I don't wanna kill your people, I just wanna make that clear from the get go. I want you to work for me. You can't do that if you're dead, now can you. I'm not growing a garden. But you killed my people, a whole damn lot of them, more than I am comfortable with, and for that, for that you gotta pay. So now, I'm gonna beat the holy hell out of one of you.”

The vehemence of the immediate threat slices through the swamp of Rick's thoughts and he gasps as he resurfaces, shakes his head almost, his eyes tracking Negan as he moves down the line, looking at each of them as he makes his choice, waving the bat he introduces as Lucille around their faces. Enid doesn't flinch, just glowers back as she's taunted, Glenn starting forward when Negan suggests to put Maggie out of her misery.

“No, no get him back in line,” Negan bellows out and his cronies are quick to follow the order, grabbing Glenn by the neck and arms to pull him back where he knelt before, no disobedience allowed. “Alright let's do this. Don't aaaaany of ya do that again. I will shut that shit down no exceptions. First one's free, it's an emotional moment, I get it. Sucks, don't it. Moment you realise you don't know shit.” 

Negan starts pacing again, but his stride is more clipped now, his easy showmanship cracking around the edges as his real anger is revealed. “Don't make it easy on me. I gotta pick somebody. Everybody's at the table waiting for me to give their reward.” His eyes roam from one to the other again, restless, checking, looking for whoever will break first, who will give him reason to swing that bat he's carrying so proudly and split open their skull, but no one is moving, none of them are doing anything but stare down death, and in that moment Rick couldn't be prouder.

“You know what, I simply cannot decide,” Negan says all of a sudden, turning half way on his heel after having stared down Rosita in silence for a long minute. “But I got an idea.” He moves back towards Rick. “You see, my outpost that you took down, the satellite station, that was my boy's station. He lead a couple of my men to clear it out and set it up, and boooooy was he mad when you guys killed our guys. That was his little vacation spot and you,” Negan tugs the baseball bat under his arm, using both hands to make an explosion gesture in front of his face, “boom, blew it right up. So maybe, maybe he should have the honours.” Negan grins widely and then makes a short, sharp whistle. “Come here, kid.”

It's Lori that steps from the shadows. 

Lori's slender frame, Lori's dark brown hair, Lori's blue eyes, and Rick shakes his head, starts rocking back and forth slightly as she walks up to Negan, holding out her hand to accept the handle of the baseball bat, giving it a swing with a twist of her wrist, an amused glance passing between her and Negan.

Rick's vision blurs again, and this time he really might be crying, because this can't be, this is all another fucked up hallucination as he tries to stare at the ground but his treacherous mind and his desperate heart force his vision up to look at the kid that's starting a slow pace down the row.

“Eeny meeny miney mo, catch the tiger by his toe, if he hollers let him go.” 

The kid points the tip of the baseball bat at each of their faces as he moves back and forth, the gestures steady, with a sure grip on the handle that shows it's not the first time he's handled it, and Rick's stomach wants to turn. He walks past again, and yes, those are Lori's eyes, but they're his eyebrows, his cheekbones, her freckles, his jaw, and his mind spins away into a storm of static as the memory of Lori holding their little boy swims to the surfaces, of her using that same nursery rhyme to count down his tiny toes and make him squeal with delight, how Rick himself had done the same with Judith not even a week ago. “My mother told me to pick the the very best one and you are it.”

His ears are stuffed with cotton wool, a screen between reality and feverish delusion and Rick only vaguely hears the words of the rhyme come to an end, doesn't register Negan's warning not to move, doesn't even know who it is his son has stopped in front of and is now pulling his arms back to forcefully swing the baseball bat up and break bones and brains.

Rick's ears are ringing with Negan's taunting, with the last words Abraham rasps over his lips before the next blow of the baseball bat makes him crumble to the ground, with the sobs and whimpers of his friends around him, but his eyes are fixed on the boy – because he's just that, he's not a man yet – wielding the bat and delivering blow after bone shattering blow, spreading the slushy insides of Abraham's skull all over the forest floor.

“Look at that, look at my boy's fine form,” Negan praises, his laser-sharp focus settling on Rosita, on how she's barely holding herself together. “Oh damn, were you- were you together?” he taunts, but Rick can't look at that, at their exchange, his eyes drawn to the boy who's taken a step back, still holding onto the baseball bat tightly, his stance poised like a bird of prey, calm, waiting.

With a roar Daryl breaks from the ranks, lunging forwards, Rick's gaze jostled along with the boy he pushes out of the way to get at Negan, to get a good punch in but he's restrained and returned to his spot within blinks, and when Rick dares to look at Negan, he is faced with pure rage.

“No no no, I already told you people, none of that shit flies here. I said I would shut that shit down,” he glares at Daryl on the floor, his eyes never leaving him as his voice levels out. “Kill another.”

Without a blink, Carl turns halfway and brings the bat right into Glenn's face who he'd been standing closest too. Blood is flying from the tip of the bat as he swings it back in a curve, hitting Rick in the face even halfway down the row.

“Carl,” he gasps out, the crazy certainty that's been settling in his mind breaking over his lips, too quiet to carry all the way across the clearing to the boy he's last seen years ago, so many years, who is still hacking away at Glenn's twitching body.

“What? I didn't quite catch that, you'll have to speak up.” Negan says, suddenly close to Rick again, invading his line of sight, demanding his full attention, and Rick's rising in anger, meeting his gaze even though his own must be glassy with tears and hate.

“I'm gonna kill you. Not today, not tomorrow.” Rick takes a breath, his body burning with all the emotions jumping inside him. “But I'm gonna kill you.”


	3. // Exposition II. //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negan nods. “Give me his axe.” It's smaller than he anticipated, nice weight in his hand, good wooden handle. Efficient. It'll do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I said it would be 4 Chapters for the first bit of the story, but I expanded this to 6 chapters for the first arc, and added this as the final chapter count so far. I have all these chapters written and will post them throughout the rest of the week, and will then up the final chapter count as soon as I got the next arc done.  
> I'm so very happy with how much you guys are enjoying it, thank you! :D

Negan's got to admit, Rick's got balls. He's done this a dozen times, two dozen maybe by now, he's stopped counting, and at this point most of the leaders he'd forced into obedience had been crying and snotting all over their damn shirts, scared for the worthless remaining members of their merry little groups, but there was none of that in Rick's eyes, only hate and rage and defiance and something Negan can't put his finger on since the first time he saw him. Rick. Rick of Alexandria, but damn it feels like he should know this fella, like he should be able to put two and two together. So Negan keeps staring until Rick averts his eyes, until they flicker to the side, to Carl who is back to waiting for whatever Negan deems necessary next to break this group to pieces, and it hits him, it hits him then, the damn impossibility of it in the grand scheme of things, but it wouldn't be this world if it didn't find another way to fuck him crosswise against the next fucking tree.

Rick. Rick of Alexandria with his Georgian Accent and his holier than thou attitude, good cop to set the world right again, with that green blue eyes that Negan has looked at so often in the past years, so similar to Carl's in colour, and that aged and wrinkled photo he knows Carl is keeping after he'd begged Negan to help him salvage it from that zombie infested pub they passed within the first weeks of their chase across the states.

Rick. Fucking. Grimes.

Father to Negan's own precious heir.

“Jesus.” Negan chuckles softly as his mind tries to keep up, restructure what he had iplanned, trying to cover the lapse with a quick smirk. “Simon, what did he have? A knife?” he asks out loud, never letting his eyes leave Rick's as he straightens up.

“Uhm, he had a hatchet.” Simon provides from the back.

“A hatchet?” Negan smiles amusedly at the fancy word Simon uses.

“An axe.”

Negan nods. “Give me his axe.” It's smaller than he anticipated, nice weight in his hand, good wooden handle. Efficient. It'll do. 

“I'll be right back,” Negan announces, grabbing Rick by the neck of his jacket and starting to drag him forcefully across the ground to the RV, pushing him inside. “Maybe Rick will be with me. And if not, well, we can just turn these people inside out.” Carl steps up to the RV, a small amused smile around the corner of his mouth as he offers Lucille's handle to him. Negan smirks back. “Well, the ones that are left.”

Negan climbs the three creaky steps into the RV. Rick is cowering on the floor as he passes and with a forceful chop sticks the axe into the plastic table. A couple more steps and he's behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. The RV's engine splutters as it tries to turn over, but dies again before it really starts. Negan chuckles. “Wow, what a piece of shit,” he says. Fitting for the big steaming pile of shit Rick is in the middle of.

“I'm gonna kill ya,” Rick grunts and Negan smirks, looking to catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. He's got guts.

“Are you kidding me? Did you see what just happened, did you see what your boy just did?”

As expected, as hoped and confirmation, Rick flinches violently.

“Oh yeah, that's your son, right? Carl? I must admit, it took me a moment to catch on, but damn, you two are two sides of a coin. Like father like son, I guess. He's definitely inherited that reckless streak from you, that sheer will power. I could come back there and kiss you for the fucking gift you dropped into my lap the day decided to take your legs and run instead of going back for your boy.”

Rick is shaking, his whole body vibrating with rage and disgust, eyes lingering on the axe embedded in the table top.

“Go on then. Your best chance is to get up, grab that axe and drive it through the back of my head. See how you do. Come on. Grab the damn axe!”

Squirming, Rick is visibly weighting his chances, his urge to do something instead of staying passive succeeding, but Negan is prepared and the moment Rick moves, he twists, the machine gun he'd already had resting on his lap firmly in his grasp.

“Drop it.”

Rick stops cold mid-move, his eyes still sparkling angrily. They'll have to get rid of that, and soon. Negan wriggles his eyebrows suggestively again and with a grunt, Rick obeys, the axe clattering as it drops to the plastic floor. Negan holds the gun pointed at Rick's head for a moment longer before he drops it back onto the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. “Don't make me get up again.”

Outside, the first rays of sunlight turn the darkness around them into a grey, foggy morning. “Oh, look at that. Dawn is breaking, it's a brand new day, Rick.” He chuckles. “Now, I want you to think about what could have happened, what happened and what still can happen,” he says and twists the key in the ignition again, the rust bucket of a vehicle finally springing to life.

 

The drive back down the road to the bridge with the roadblock they set on fire yesterday isn't long. The fires have mostly died down, but the damp wood is still smouldering, turning the whole area into a misty nightmare. As expected the flames lured a mass of walkers into the dip of the road, the stench of searing flesh heavy in the air.

Negan cuts the engine in the midst of it, the noise of the car attracting the walkers like moths to a flame, their mindless hulls bashing against the sides of the RV in hunger. Getting up out of the drivers seat Negan saunters back to where Rick is still sitting hunched over, picks up the axe and toys with it.

“You are mine,” he announces, ducking his head to look Rick in the eye. “The people back there, they're mine. Your boy is mine.” Rick flinches again, his emotions all over his face, easy to read like an open book. It's almost too easy, now that Negan found his weak spot. “This,” he holds the axe right under Rick's nose. “Is mine.” With a swift motion he pushes himself to his feet, drags the flimsy door that's their only protections from the onslaught open and tosses the axe onto the roof of the RV, hearing it land with a dull thud.

“Hey Rick. Go get my axe. Let's be one big, happy family.”

The zombies are moving for the door while Rick is still frozen to the spot. Negan takes two, three of them out with his gun, but his patience with Rick is drawing thin. A step back into the RV and he's got Rick by the scruff again and tosses him out into the grabbing masses. “Go get my axe.” The door slams shut between them.

Negan is back in the passenger seat quickly. With the window rolled open he takes out another couple walkers before Rick gets his bearings, starts fighting back, and that, that's the drama he's signed up for. Negan has never seen him go full on out before, but it's a sight to watch, his technique messy but effective, definitely a force to mind, and within moments he's got himself freed from the thick of it and onto the roof of the RV, his messy scrambling audible from below.

“Bet you thought you were all gonna grow old together,” Negan shouts, his voice making the plastic hull of the RV shake, not dampening it enough for Rick not to hear. “You and your new family, sittin' around the table at Sunday dinner, and the happily ever after. No. It doesn't work like that, not anymore! Think about what happened.”

Fifteen minutes. That's gotta be enough for Rick to make up his mind and realise that living under the Saviours will be better for him and his group than dying at the hands of the Saviours, but it's also time that Negan needs to make up his own mind, to plan his next steps. Maybe it would be better if Rick never came back, if he died out here a zombie death, that black girl in the group had had all the markings of a potential leader, maybe Negan could deal with her instead, maybe it would be better for Carl to never know that his father abandoned him all those years back, that he'd been building a new family, a new life for himself and all but forgotten about his boy.

Negan lets it play out in his head, how Carl would react to the news, all the potential ways this could go and in that moment he knows he won't let Rick die if Rick isn't stupid enough to get himself killed, because whatever will happen, Negan will have first row seats when everything unfolds. It's a risk, damn it is a fucking risk, but he knows his boy, has been with him for over six years now. He should know him, should know that Carl will be loyal, but the kid has surprised him before, always had his own fucking mind, but that's what Negan adores so much about him. He's his own man, even though he's barely grown into his full height yet, and Jesus, he hopes he can trust his guts on this one because it will be magnificent. Breaking Rick will be the most fun he's had in a while.

“People died, Rick,” Negan calls out when he deems Rick has stewed enough. “It's what happened. Doesn't mean the rest of them have to.”

There's no response from the roof, so Negan takes up the rifle and cocks it against his hip. “Last chance, Rick. Bring me my axe!” He lets lose a round of bullets, sends them in a clear line through the roof and there's sudden scrambling up above, Rick lurching away from the gunfire. The zombies are running wild outside and Negan goes back to the window, heading to get a good look and take out any zombies that would keep Rick from accidentally being bitten to death, and Rick gets it, gets the axe, slashing and hacking through the mass of moving bodies around him until he reaches the door, banging against it.

Negan takes his time, but opens it eventually to let Rick back inside, quickly stepping out of the way from his body being flung into the RV and then slams the door shut behind him, keeping out the death and decay. “See, you're learning.”

 

On their return to the clearing, everything still looks like they left it. Negan is pleased to see that without their dog, these sheep know how to stay in line. It'll definitely be useful whatever happens today. Rick is barely more than a dead weight as he drags him back out of the RV and drops him in front of his people.

“We're here, prick. I know this must be hard for you, losing two of your people just like that,” Negan says, handing his rifle off to one of his guys to have his hands free, Lucille dangling from the side of his belt. “And that by the hands of your own boy.”

Negan pauses at that, allows the words to sink in, them being met by confusion mostly, disorientation. Rick is gasping where he's kneeling on the ground. “That's right, isn't it Rick. We got ourselves a nice little family reunion here. You see,” Negan straightens, sauntering around the middle of the clearing until he reaches Carl. 

Carl's got his eyes narrowed to slits, but they aren't giving away much, his slender body one tight rod of tension. Negan grins at him and throws his arm around the boy's shoulder, drawing him along into the middle of the group. 

“My boy Carl here, who I've rescued from the ashes of Bumfuck, Georgia, who I raised and nurtured like my own, who's making me so proud, my boy's been abandoned by his shit ass cop daddy back all those years, and now what a great fortune we have to reunite this motherfucker with the kid he couldn't care less about since then. Isn't that right, Rick?”

Carl is frozen still in his place, but Negan doesn't look at him, his eyes fixed on Rick shaking his head violently, shuddering on the ground, on all fours like the dog he is.

“What else have you kept from your son, Rick? Is Misses Rick back home in Alexandria, taking care of your two point five other children that you've sprouted since leaving Carl to die? You should introduce your boy to the family, although he's already gotten up real close and personal with two of your gang.” He squeezes Carl's shoulder, glancing to the side then to find the boy staring back at him, his eyes lined with shock and recognition, but the hard edge never leaving his jaw. “I think you should invite as all over for a nice family dinner soon, whatcha thinking.”

Letting go of Carl, Negan steps closer to Rick, lowering himself to speak close to his ear, over the incoherent babbling sobs that are leaving Rick by now. God, he's a mess. Negan wants to take a picture and frame it on the wall. “Because that's how it's going to be from now on.”

“Please. That's not true, please, please.” That's it, that's right where Negan wanted him to be, the way Rick doesn't even lift his head any more, doesn't dare look his own son or any of his friends in the face.

“You answer to me. You provide for me. You belong to me,” Negan proclaims, right next to Rick's ear, and stuttering, Rick says them right back, barely distinguishable how they are through his broken sobs.

With a slow clap, Negan rises to his feet. “Wow. What an exciting day today was. We've had it all, suspense, gore, and such a happy reunion. My god, I would blow myself if I could just reach my dick.” He walks along the lines of survivors still on the ground. “You can keep your RV, use it to load up all the fancy useful shit you're going to get me. Take home your dead. Dwight,” he calls out, and the little shit scrambles to the front, eager dog he is. “We'll be keeping that animal of yours, take care of him for you. And Rick, if you and your people decide to get cocky again, I will cut pieces off of-” Negan pauses, turning to Simon. “What's his name again?”

“Daryl,” Simon says quickly and Negan nods.

“I will cut pieces off of Daryl and bring them to your doorstep, or rather, have you do it for me. You understand?”

Rick nods, reduced to nothing else.

“We'll be back for our first family dinner in a week,” Negan decides. “Until then, ta-ta.”


	4. // Antiphon //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Figures this damned new world would send Carl a memory from the past to destroy what he's worked so hard to build for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains explicit sex.
> 
> Also I'm usually someone who sticks with a single POV through a story, so switching around is new for me, and now that we get to Carl, well, he's the one I feel most insecure about writing. He's so complex! Hope you enjoy my take on him.

Bashing people's heads in is hard fucking work. Carl stretches his fingers, touching the callouses on his palms. Maybe he should start wearing gloves too, the leather minimising the friction. He'd worked up a sweat earlier, and his shirts are now sticking to his skin, clammy and cold. It's not summer any more, the cooler nights not leaving any doubt to that.

“Wow, that really was your Daddy?” Simon asks as soon as they're in the truck heading back home. 

Carl glances up from where he's sitting in the back, glaring an answer that makes Simon shut up and not pry further, even though Carl knows that the grapevine will be running wild by the time they've returned to the Sanctuary. Negan is looking at him too, through the rear view mirror, but Carl ignores his gaze, looks out the window instead, still working his hand to remove the stiffness in his joints.

Fuck, he's exhausted. It's mid-morning and they've been awake for almost two days now. Setting up all the roadblocks had been tedious, grunt work that Carl isn't above doing. It's what's earned him his place among Negan's men not just as Negan's pet boy but as one of them. That's why he'd been so proud of the satellite station: they'd randomly come across it infested with zombies, and it had been his idea to turn it into an outpost after getting the all clear from Negan to do what he wants with it, to prove himself. He'd found himself a dozen men most twice his age who followed his every instruction as they cleared it of walkers within minutes, secured the perimeter and then plotted out how to enforce it, where best to stow everything, how much armed forces they needed to keep it. It had been a beauty.

Figures this damned new world would send him a memory from the past to destroy what he's worked so hard to build for himself.

They drive past the statues, through the guarding field of walkers tied up around their home. Carl opens the door as soon as the car comes to a hold, jumps out onto the gravel. He is still reeking from sweat and blood and splatters of brains all over his shins, wants nothing more than a clean set of clothes and to get away from everything for a moment, but before he can take even two steps, Negan's got him by the shoulder, turning him against the side of the truck, a little shield from the ongoing mayhem of return around them.

“Shit kid, you okay in there?” he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice, a softness barely anyone is privileged to hear. He lifts his hand to tap the side of Carl's head but Carl twitches his head away.

“I'm fine,” he grits out.

Negan gives him a long look, but knows from experience that challenging Carl won't work right now. His name is already being called out behind them, so he just gives a court nod. “Get some rest, you did a hell of a job today.” He turns and Carl falls in step with him, walking towards the gates. Next to them, that dog they took from Rick's group is being dragged out of one of the trucks. “I got to make sure that piece of shit gets the accommodations he deserves, got speeches to make, places to be.”

They deviate in the main hall, where a set of stairs leads up to the higher floors of the building. Carl hates those fucking stairs and Negan's demand to live further up the building. There's no elevator, not enough electricity to waste on one, and they're narrow enough to be a trap if some other group got strong enough to challenge them; Negan seems determined to undermine any threat before it can arise, but Carl can't help being weary. He's too tired to take them two at a time, so it takes a while until he reaches the floor he's sharing with Simon, Arat and the other higher animals on the Saviours' food chain.

Carl opens one of the windows, lets some fresh air in once he's inside his room. He's far enough up that the noise from the ground floor doesn't reach them here, the constant grunts and groans of the walkers far below. Leaving it open, he grabs a fresh set of clothes, sweatpants, tanktop, a shirt to wear above, before he returns to the hall, to the makeshift bathroom they're sharing at the end of it. In the middle of the day it's abandoned and he allows himself to linger at the basin and jugs of cold water for longer than he'd allow himself normally, washing all the grime and sweat from his skin, standing stripped naked in the cold room. He puts his boots on again afterwards. The concrete floor is hard, the chill that's penetrating the building even in summer always around.

Back in his room, Carl closes the windows, drags the blinds they've installed over the large glass fronts. They're not really dense enough but the sky outside is dulled by clouds, keeping the glare from the sun hidden. Slipping between the sheets of his bed, the large metal frame creaking slightly as he turns and tosses to settle down, Carl forces himself to get comfortable enough, waits for the lingering exhaustion to finally take over and calm his racing thoughts.

An hour later, and he's still staring holes into the ceiling. Carl sighs, turning around again to bury his face in the soft pillows. His eyes are burning, and there's a faint headache throbbing at the back of his skull. Dehydration, probably. He should have picked up some bottled water on the way up earlier, but going all the stairs back down to the mess hall seems too big a challenge.

After another couple of minutes tossing, Carl gives up. He sits on the edge of the mattress, locating his boots in the dim light and slips them on, then locks the door to his room behind himself before he moves down the corridor to the stairway, but instead of going down, he takes the lesser frequented stairs leading up. There's only Negan's rooms on the next floor, whatever he doesn't use as his private quarters and the conference room for the planning of their campaigns, laying dormant and locked under a layer of dust.

He doesn't lock his door, not like Carl and the others have to do in fear of scavengers and thieves daring enough. Negan doesn't have to fear being at the end of petty crime, the respect his followers pay him, the way they fear him, making sure his property stays untouched. Carl is pretty certain that fear extends to his own person and his belongings, but he doesn't want to look foolish. He's learned better.

The four poster bed that's dominating Negan's room is large and of better quality than his own, the mattresses like a soft embrace, no creaking as Carl makes himself at home between the sheets. He sighs, turning his face into the pillow, and yes, this is it. This is where he feels at home, at peace, and he takes a couple deep breaths, wraps his arms around one of the pillows and closes his eyes. He didn't draw the blinds, but the greyish light from outside doesn't reach him here and he's slipped into a hazy doze before long.

 

Negan's return an undetermined amount of time later pulls Carl out of his doze. He stirs, stifles a yawn and follows Negan's movements around the room from beneath heavy eyelids.

“Didn't know this was your room now, kid,” Negan says, his voice a low murmur when he notices Carl's gaze as he places Lucille in the corner of the room, close to the nightstand, slipping off his gloves and leather jacket and placing them over the chair in the corner. He stretches, the vertebrae in his back popping, a satisfied moan falling from his lips. There's a half empty bottle of Bourbon waiting on the sideboard and Negan twists the cap off and pours two fingers into a tumbler, closing his eyes as he takes a swig.

“Did you know?” Carl asks, his voice quiet, muffled by the pillow he's talking against. Negan doesn't react. “That it was him?” It's a question that's been going around Carl's mind since the moment they got away from the clearing.

Negan takes another mouthful of Bourbon before he turns to set the glass back down on the sideboard, leaning back against it as he looks at Carl on the bed, his expression thoughtful. “No. Not from the beginning.” He falls silent for a moment, his head cocked to the side. “I wouldn't have sprung it on you like that.”

Carl rubs his cheek against the pillow, his eyes fixed on Negan's, trying to read him. He believes him that he didn't know, but the latter, he's not so sure. It doesn't matter now, though. “I didn't want to believe it,” he admits, giving voice to that moment of recognition he'd felt when he'd counted down the row who to kill first, that moment of mad delusion and hope he'd felt turning his insides to fire when he'd thought he'd found his father, that feeling he'd immediately squashed, all the rage he'd felt at himself, at that part of him that still dreamt about his old life sometimes turned into the violence he'd let spill out when he bashed that ginger's skull in. Damn, it had felt good.

That was all over now though. The years had taken a toll on all of them. Carl adapted, and so did Rick, that shell of a person he'd watched earlier today only baring vague resemblances with the memories of his ten year old mind, no source for comfort any more.

Stretching out his hand, Carl curls his fingers around the edge of the mattress. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Organise our entry for Alexandria next week, make sure that dog we took from them is nice and trained by then, look for-” Negan stops mid-sentence, a smirk spreading across his lips. “Oh, you mean right now?” Carl rolls his eyes because of course he does, and Negan knows it. “Right now I'm gonna go wash all this shit off myself, because boy, that was a fucking little stunt we played, and then I'm gonna go get my dick sucked in celebration by one or two of my wives.”

It's a goad. Negan knows full well what Carl thinks of his wives system, about the way he uses them to show off his virility, just another tool to humiliate his underlings and keep them in line, just another way to strengthen the hierarchy he implemented in the Sanctuary. They're faceless tools to him, only as useful as the people they're related to and the facade they help him maintain. Still he can't entirely blank out the annoyance he feels for every minute they take Negan's attention away from him. The years out on the road have made Carl selfish.

“Come back here,” Carl says and it's not really a request.

Negan's smirk widens. “Jealous?” he asks before he turns, opening the drawers of the sideboard to pick out a change of clothes for himself.

Carl is silent until he's almost reached the door. “Just come back here.”

 

Negan's weight jostling the mattress as he returns wakes Carl from his slumber. “If you ain't up to keep your word, I should be up above fucking one of my wives,” Negan drawls as he climbs on top of Carl, above the blanket, his muscular thighs on either side of the boy's hips. He leans forwards, bracing his arms next to Carl's head, face not an inch from Carl's own. Droplets of water drip from his hair.

Carl strains his neck, Negan's weight trapping him under the blankets easily, making it hard to move. He nudges his nose against Negan's jaw, over the stubble there. “Do it.”

Changing his weight from both hands to one, Negan uses the right to untie the string on the fresh pair of sweatpants he'd changed into, pushing the stretchy fabric down his arse. He's not wearing anything underneath, his hand going straight to the thick length of his cock, giving himself a couple slow pulls. 

“Fuck, I've been hard for you ever since you smashed that ginger fucker's skull in,” he says, scooting up the bed, the soft, washed out clothes yielding easily under his shuffling until he's got his knees on either side of Carl's shoulders. Carl turns his head to the side, mouthing along one of his thighs, soft lips and sharp teeth scratching at his skin. Negan braces himself with one hand against the headboard for balance, looking down as he keeps stroking his dick, dangling it close to Carl's face. “Wanted to push you to your knees right there and make you suck my cock like the slut I know you are for me.”

Carl moans, feeling his own body flush hotly. He keeps his eyes open, straining his neck again to nuzzle at the base of Negan's cock, licking at his balls, into the crook where his torso meets his thigh. Leaning a little further forwards, Negan guides his cock to Carl's lips, but keeping it just out of reach. Carl sticks out his tongue, desperate for it, desperate for the familiarity of the gesture, for the sure weight of it on his tongue, the scent and taste something he craves like food these days. Negan knows it, loves the tease as much as the sole abandon Carl puts to the task and leaves him dangling a little longer, watching with delight how he strains to get at the tip of it, lick off those first smears of precome like a precious treat.

“Be a good boy and open up for me,” Negan says once his own patience has run out. Carl gasps out a yes, his lips slack, mouth wide open, waiting for Negan to finally slide his dick into the hot, wet confines of Carl's mouth.

It's heaven. It's oblivion. Carl closes his eyes and focuses on soft skin that's covering Negan's hard dick sliding over his tongue, the tip pushing in deep to the back of his throat, and he tries to relax, open himself up more. The angle isn't perfect for it, taking away all the control from Carl, all the little tricks he learned in the past months, leaving him defenceless and gagging for more, for all of it. He chokes, his throat working around the very tip of Negan's cock, making the man moan lewdly above him, the hand that's been guiding his dick now moving to the back of Carl's head, cradling it securely, his thumb running in circles in the kid's long hair as he supports his head, rocking his hips slowly to thrust his dick in and out of the boy's hot mouth.

Carl loses himself in it, his tongue working at the underside of Negan's cock, not trying for anything fancy, just following Negan's lead as he is used, nothing more than a wet hole for Negan to fuck, and it's glorious, liberating. He can feel himself floating in the cocoon of the sheets tight around his body that's burning up with heat, his own hips mindlessly bucking up against the soft material for friction that isn't enough to satisfy but all he'll get for now. His own pleasure seems secondary though, his whole purpose focused on the thick shaft moving between his lips, the way it makes his jaw deliciously sore, his eyes water slightly from the few breaths he manages to get in between.

Negan is moaning above him, pulling back until the tip of his fat cock rests on Carl's tongue, a thicker trickle of precome bursting with flavours all over it. “Suck it,” Negan grinds out and Carl doesn't waste a second, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks on the tip, pressing it up against the firm roof of his mouth, feeling another trail of spunk trickle over his tongue and down the back of his throat. “That's my good boy,” Negan says, and for all the posturing he does, in these moments Carl never doubts a single word he says.

Carl hums, giving another sharp suck and Negan' hips stutter forwards involuntarily, the tip of his dick hitting the back of Carl's throat again, making him cough and drool around his dick.

“You want that? Want my fucking dick deep down your throat when I blow my load?” Negan says thickly, his voice straining for control. “Or you want me to decorate your face with my spunk, keep it dried on your skin to show off to everyone daring to look at your bitch face.” Carl moans, both options making his head spin but he sucks again sharply, wanting that, wanting the taste not to go to waste, wanting to swallow it, to keep it inside of himself for the next day, like a brand only he knows about, some gift to carry with him.

“Alright boy. You earned that today, my little serial killer,” Negan coos as he moves his hips with more purpose, thrusting in and out of Carl's willing mouth, making him take it. There's drool being pulled out between Carl's lips on every move back, sliding down his chin and cheeks, the bite of tears at the corners of his eyes as he tries not to gag, to make Negan proud again, to proof himself in every way.

Negan's thrust are becoming erratic as he's chasing his orgasm, teetering on the brink for a moment before he groans out loudly, cock buried deep down Carl's throat and held there as he comes, stealing his breath for a long moment, making him light-headed. He draws out eventually, staying hunched over Carl's head for a moment as they both catch their breaths, before he scoots back, laying down across Carl's body, pressing him into the mattress.

Carl moans, rubbing up into the friction Negan's sure weight provides, feeling the hot tip of Negan's tongue lap up the drool and spunk that escaped the corners of his mouth, that's smeared down his jaw.

“Please,” Carl moans out as he's hanging on the edge, everything feeling too much but nothing like enough to push him either way.

“Shhhh, I got you,” Negan murmurs, dragging at the sheets until he's got them pulled out of the way, his big hands reaching for Carl, drawing his quivering back against his chest, strong arms sliding around him, palm rubbing down his stomach and into his pants, reaching for his cock.

Carl comes with a shout two, three firm strokes later, his body jerking in Negan's tight grasp until he's just a shaking mess, pliant and soft.

“It doesn't change anything. That he's back,” Carl says into the quiet that follows only broken by their heavy breathing. He doesn't mean it as a question, hates that it sounds like one anyway, all weak and unsure.

Negan tugs him closer. “You're mine.”


	5. // Reprise //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter time! A little insight on Negan's first hours after the apocalypse.

That's it. He's got enough of this shitty small town in the middle of no-fucking-where Georgia. He's got his bag in the back of his truck, a bundle of bedding and a tent, his fishing kit, his car repair kit, everything he could think of in the hour that's passed since the town meeting telling everyone that whatever crazy virus has spread among the metropolises of this great country isn't done yet, it's moving, on the fucking rise and hell if he stays like a sitting duck in suburban paradise without even giving it a fucking try. No Sir, not him, he's the fuck out of here.

Negan never wanted to be here in the first place: Home is along the East Coast, up near Washington D.C. and he'd never left there to begin with if the uptight fuckers at the district's school supervision hadn't been mighty unimpressed with the parents council's letter regarding his lose mouth. So what. It's not like those teens didn't hear shit on television every damn day. So he'd had to take his hat and move, only's not so damn easy once you got those motherfuckers scribbling all over your damn file now is it to find a new job. Asswipe Georgia it had become, the only place on this god damn continent that had an open job offer for a PE teacher, elementary school level at that, fucking little league. But better than sleeping in his damn truck because he couldn't pay the rent any more, with all the money those damn vultures took off him for the funeral and the hospital bills fluttering in even months after Lucille had been six feet under.

He's still got some cousins up there, an elderly aunt in a retirement home, what's left of his family, but it's better trying to see if any of them survived than waiting it out here. There's been rumours, of bombings, of the big cities burning in riots and cleaning attempts by the military, and they're too close to Atlanta for his taste. Rather go on the road for a while, see what happens.

He's set, almost, ready to head out and see where it takes him, only one last stop before he can show this town the finger and move on: there's still his envelope with this month's pay check sitting in the lockable drawer of his desk back at the school. There's a picture of his wife too, a spare pair of sunglasses. Canned food in the school cafeteria because he'd already seen the first looters going through the grocery store on the way back to his rundown apartment and he's not going to go get his head bashed in for a fucking can of beans.

As expected, the school is already deserted, doors left ajar and tire tracks all over the usually meticulously kept grass out front. Parents will have picked up their kids on the way back from the town hall, scrambling to keep their loved ones close. He drives his truck right up the walkway, through the gates and into the inner yard, no cars allowed there on a usual day. Fuck them all. He parks it next to the set of stairs leading into the basement below the cafeteria. The door isn't locked and he makes a couple return trips, carrying out cans of beans and corn, tomato soup, fruit salad, bottled water and beef jerky. Enough to last a single person a month, two if he eats small portions, three if he has to, securing everything under a piece of tarmac on the back of his truck.

Negan's office is down by the locker rooms leading to the school gym. The outside door is locked, so he retraces his steps, going in through the main doors and down the long corridors, past open class rooms and abandoned belongings, past the locker rooms to the end of the hallway. His room is locked, undisturbed and he quickly opens the door, strides around the desk. It's all there, his cash, his photos, stuffing them all quickly into his pockets. He takes a moment to look around the room but he hasn't been here long enough to turn it into the second home other teachers do, the walls empty except for a couple posters bearing the school's team mascot and framed pictures of past victories.

An echoing clatter from the hallway makes Negan spin around. He freezes, ears pricked to listen for another sound, for who has been following him this deeply into the school. More looters, probably. His muscles twitch with tension, the potential urge to protect himself. He needs a weapon. There's a couple pieces of sports equipment lined up on the wall: skipping ropes, hula hoops, a net of balls he hands out to the kids in the yard for lunch breaks; field hockey bats, softball bats, baseball bats for when they go out in summer. It's the last that his eyes linger on, wooden, sturdy, not too long to be a hindrance in the close confines of the hallways. His fingers close around the handle and he lifts it high as he moves for the door, peering around the corner.

There's a handful of children gathered close by the wall around halfway down the corridor. Two girls are holding hands, one boy is crying, another wearing a large hat trying to shush him, a fifth at the front of the group brandishing a piece of metal rod that's obviously too heavy for his small arms like a weapon, the weight of it dragging his arms down.

Negan lowers the bat, steps out into the hallway. “Hell, kids, what are you still doing here? Your parents not picked you up yet?”

“It's the coach,” one of the girls hisses and Negan vaguely remembers her from one of his classes but doesn't remember her name. The crying boy starts wailing louder. The one with the rod dropping it to the floor, a flash of relief crossing his face.

Great. He so doesn't need this. “Go back to your classrooms, your parents will come get you soon,” he orders gruffly.

The crying boy shrieks loudly. “I want my muuuuuum.”

Fucking spectacular. “Look, if you just go back and wait, they'll come and get you, like all your friends. You can't go wandering around the school like this, they'll never find you.”

“I told you this was stupid,” one of the girls hisses at the first boy, making him flush.

“Shut up. They're not coming.”

Negan looks up at that, at the boy with the sheriff's hat and the angry frown he barely hides below the brim. He'd heard about that, about the boy's dad being shot, and yeah, maybe he's right, maybe there is no one coming for him.

“Okay, shit,” Negan grunts, rubbing at his face again. “Move. I'm not a fucking school bus driver. Come on.” He walks up to them, ushers them down the hall and into the yard. “You all know where your houses are? Get in the truck.”

“Sandy!” There's a shout ringing from across the yard and a young couple is running towards them.

“Mum, Dad!” The girl that had just been about to get into Negan's truck jumps back down and runs into their waiting arms.

Great. One gone, four to go. “I said get in the truck, now. Which one of you lives closest?” The crying boy raises his hand, mumbling his address between wet sobs. Negan knows that street, it really isn't far. He tosses the baseball bat into the foot space of the passenger seat and reverses the car out of the yard onto the streets.

The house is barely 15 minutes from the school. There's people running in and out, dragging suitcases and supplies into a caravan. The boy starts crying loudly again and Negan opens the door and steps out, pulling the boy onto his hip to carry him across the road. His mother shrieks when she sees them and the boy struggles freeing himself from Negan's grip to run at her legs.

“Thank you,” the mum says and Negan just rolls his eyes. Fucking people.

“Who's next?” he asks as soon as he's back in the truck.

“Me,” hat boy says quietly, before giving his address, then telling Negan where to go because the street name doesn't ring a bell. A couple more minutes later they're pulling up in his street. It's a nice street, all nice houses like all of the little town really, suburban dream land. There's no car parked out front. Negan frowns.

“Stay here,” he says as he gets out of the car, walking up the drive. The door is unlocked. He pushes it open with his foot, calling out into the empty hall. Taking a step inside when he gets no answer, he takes a look around. Shoes and jackets are missing from the hooks in the hallway. He gets a look into the living room, the mantelpiece empty of pictures, some broken frames on the floor. From the kitchen doorway he can see the open door into the adjacent pantry, shelves empty of goods.

“They're gone.”

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Negan shouts, spinning around, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. The boy is standing behind him in the middle of the hallway. “Don't go around scaring the fucking shit out of me.”

The kid blinks at him from beneath the brim of his hat, cocking his head to the side. “Does your mum know you talk like that?”

Surprised, Negan lets out a half laugh, half scoff. “Get back into the car.” There's nothing left for them here. Chances are they'll run into the kid's parents – mother, Negan corrects himself internally – on the way out of town. “Wait.” The boy stops, looks at him again. “You got a bag? Get a change of clothes, just in case.” He nods, eerily calm and starts up the stairs. Negan can hear him rummaging around upstairs, coming back down barely two minutes later with a sports bag, the arm of a flannel shirt still sticking out of the halfway done-up zip.

“Okay, you two, who's next?” Negan asks once they're back in the truck, making no comment of the bag they returned with. The boy and girl look at each other.

“We live on the same street, near the hospital.”

That's on the other end of town. Right where Negan doesn't want to be. Fuck. He scowls at the road, putting the car into drive. He'll drop them off and then he's fucking gone.

The true extend of the panic that has overtaken the otherwise quiet town becomes visible as they get closer to its centre. There's more traffic here, people running around. Some shops are already closed down, the glass fronts of the grocery store broken to pieces littering the sidewalk in front of it. Military vehicles have pulled up, soldiers trying to get some order into the scattered crowd. Negan steers the car to the right, going in an arch around the centre not to get stuck.

They make it a little further, before a roadblock has them come to a halt. A soldier with a rifle ready to shoot walks up to their truck and Negan rolls down the window.

“Where're you going?”

“I'm a teacher at the school, I want to take the kids to their parents,” Negan explains as the soldier looks into the truck, her eyes softening visibly before she looks back at Negan.

“The whole area is locked down. No one's left in there, to prevent the virus from spreading from the hospital.”

“Listen,” Negan starts, trying to negotiate his way, but the woman shakes her head, her eyes hardening.

“You turn that car around. There's no one left here.” They're gone or they're dead, is what she's saying and Negan's stomach drops as he takes a deep breath.

“Alright, kids. There's probably a meeting point set up somewhere outside town. We'll find your folks there,” Negan says jovially, trying not to let the kids feel they're screwed. He looks into the rear view mirror as he reverses the car to turn it around, catches the sheriff's kid's eyes. He just looks back evenly, and Negan feels like he knows they're screwed.


	6. // Da Capo //

It's barely distinguishable any more, but Carl has looked at it so often, daily in the early years, rarely lately, that it's burnt on the back of his eyelids, easily called back to mind every tiny detail. His mother's arms around him. His dad's proud smile. By now the photo is washed out, cracks in the image from being folded, tucked into pockets and bags, bend when Carl now retrieves it from the inside of the hat he's kept for as many years, a keepsake in the lowest drawer of the sideboard in his room.

He places the hat on top of the sideboard, braces his lower arms against it as he unfolds the picture between his fingers carefully. It's brittle in places, on the verge of tearing along the folds running crosswise through the middle of it. His own face has fallen victim to one of the cracks, but it doesn't matter so much, as long as his parents' faces are still okay.

Carl stares at it a long, long time.

“Taking a trip down memory lane?”

Carl closes his eyes, taking a deep breath but doesn't turn around to Negan's voice coming from the doorway. He remains silent, listening to Negan's sure footsteps slowly crossing the room, the door swinging shut behind him. He walks up close, until Carl can feel his body heat and instinctively leans back against him, sighing when Negan dips down his head, placing a kiss beneath the curve of his ear.

“Hot damn, I almost forgot, your daddy sure cleans up nicely when he's not weeping and snotting all over my shoes.”

Shut up, Carl wants to tell him, a response Negan is so used to from him he wouldn't even blink an eye, but ever since they left that clearing a couple days ago, Carl feels on edge, restless. Disoriented for the first time in years. It shouldn't be like that, hell, he's fought so fucking hard to stay alive, to build something after he'd lost everything, everyone. Before he knows it, he's shaking hard, the grip he has on the old photo knuckle white, angry, helpless tears burning at the back of his eyes, and it's not fair, it's just not fucking fair.

“Shit, kid, sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry,” Negan says, softly now, his hands going to Carl's hips, and Carl wants to turn into him, be wrapped up in his strong arms and just deny everything that's happened, but he's not that scared child any more, he's fought too damn hard to shed that skin and become someone else, he's not going back there. Not even in front of Negan; especially not in front of Negan, who had been his hardest jury to convince. The men had been easy, a cocky attitude and his inbred streak to anger and revenge had made them bow before him almost as easily as before Negan, as if Carl didn't hear them call him a psychopath kid.

It had been Negan who had been there at the start, who'd been there before Carl had been bathed and baptised in blood and reborn the thing he is now, Negan he had to fight tooth and nail every step along the way to be seen as his own person, as more than just that broken doll he protected from the new world order.

Carl won't allow that.

He turns quickly, surprising Negan so the moment he needs to catch up is enough for Carl to push their lips together, biting at Negan's mouth hungrily. Negan grunts, his hands sliding down from Carl's hips to his ass, and he's lifted up, a blink of vertigo before he can feel the solid wood of the sideboard beneath him, Negan's body pressing between his thighs as he kisses back, devouring Carl's mouth.

“Getting frisky?” Negan taunts when he breaks their kiss, rubbing his bearded cheek against Carl's smooth one. Carl sighs, his legs hooking around Negan's thighs, drawing him closer into an embrace, but Negan leans back instead, catching Carl's eyes as he reaches to the side, picks up the hat. “I think you should wear that.”

It takes Carl a moment to catch on. He frowns, tilting his head to the side. “I thought you said tomorrow.”

Negan shrugs, smirking. “Can't let daddy-dear miss you too much, right? I bet he's already got his panties in a knot, worrying about his baby. I just came in here to get you, but you distracted me so sweetly.” He leans in, stealing another kiss that's softer, but not less owning. “Want to distract me some more?”

Carl shakes his head. He doesn't want to go, not really, doesn't feel ready to face all the what-ifs that are lying in wait for him in Alexandria, hazy and impossible as they are, but he knows he can't stay behind either, Negan would never allow that, not when he's the most effective weapon they have against Rick's group.

“Good boy,” Negan says and leans in again, another kiss and Carl knows his lips and cheeks will be red and raw from the beard burn, making him think of Negan all day. “And yeah, wear the hat.”

Stepping away from him, Negan adjusts himself in his pants with a languid smirk, before he turns around, picking up Lucille where he's left her on Carl's bed, heading for the door expecting Carl to follow.

“You think she'll be there? My mum?” Somehow Carl can only ask him these questions to his back. He lowers his head slightly, the wide brim shielding his eyes from scrutiny.

Negan sighs, stopping with his hand on the door handle. “Damn if I know.”

“I can't remember what she said to me, you know,” Carl admits, one of the many thoughts his mind had been jumping around over the past days, during the nights he'd spend curled up in his own bed, or next to Negan, his presents not enough to chase the nightmares and haunting circles his mind kept running around in away. “That last morning. I just can't remember. Or dad, before he got shot.” He glances up, but Negan isn't looking at him, his eyes fixed on the baseball bat in his hand. He looks far away.

“Yeah,” he says after a long moment, visibly pulling himself together. “Come on, kid, let's go.” He grins, but it looks a little hollow and Carl jumps off the sideboard, pressing his body close against Negan's side as they head out of his room and down the hallway, before the narrow stairs make Carl jump ahead. “Let's not leave your daddy waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little scene concludes the first story arc. I'm about halfway done writing the next arc, got one more day of work and then finally vacations, so I hope to get some more done and ready to post by next week. Thank you guys so much for all the awesome comments and the warm welcome <3


	7. // Country Songs //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ACT 2: Playing House.
> 
> A throwback to their first days on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows the dust off this fic*
> 
> I AM A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING.  
> I promised you more of this fic and now so many weeks have passed, writing feels like pulling teeth and real life is super busy in a good way, but I am not giving up on this thing. I got a couple more installments written, so you will get some updates in the next couple days, currently editing them as I am also writing more, but I'm not going to set a time frame right now because I don't want to disappoint you. Thank you to everyone who's still interested in this story. I love you alot.

The radio keeps working for a surprisingly long time. There isn't one in the hut they flee to after the mayhem that is the interstate, away from the looters and rioters and just crazy ass people that they encounter on their way out of town. They gotta wait it out, Negan decides, they're too easily targeted, him and the three kids he so involuntarily got stuck with. There wasn't a meet-up point, and by nightfall the electric grid had failed in the whole area, the cellphones going with it.

But the radio had kept working, some local channel after the big national ones had failed, some crazy dude playing My Wife Left With The Farmer But Jesus Still Loves Me And My Fucking Dog country songs between talking about the bombs falling over Atlanta, the rising columns of smoke. They'd left the interstate at the first exit they could, how packed it was in the direction away from the capital with more cars joining, had taken to the back roads, further into the fields and farmlands, the little patches of woods in between.

They'd ran across the hut by accident: a sign leading them down the wrong road that had ceased into a gravel path had lead them there, the small one storey building with its porch out front and a foot path leading down to a lake, creaky wooden pier leading out into the shallow waters.

“Stay in the car,” Negan had grunted before jumping out of the truck, the baseball bat in his hand as he'd walked up to it, seeing if anyone was there but found it deserted. A few kicks with his boot and the door had sprung open from the wrecked lock, a gust of stale air hitting him in the face, the squeal of mice fleeing from their peaceful domain. Two rooms, a rudimentary toilet out back, a gas cooker in the makeshift kitchen, but it was quiet here, safe for now, it would do.

Think of it like a school trip, Negan had told the kids in the evening, not knowing what else to say. They were scared and hungry and restless, and he didn't know how to deal with them. Somehow telling them everything would be alright seemed like a lie they'd look through immediately.

Paula caught them their first meal the next day. Her dad had shown her, she said when she found Negan's fishing kit among the stuff he carried in from the truck. She'd easily assembled the rod, set everything up and was gone down to the lake before Negan could really stop her. She was good too, and a couple hours later she came back with a handful of dead trout and a successful smile on her face that betrayed the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

Davey was the first of the kids to kill one of the walkers two weeks later, when the mindless thing stumbled into them, called by the shrieks of the kids playing on the porch. Their laughter had turned into screams of horror in a matter of seconds, alerting Negan from where he was on his back beneath the truck, fixing a broken cable one of the rodents had gnawed into pieces. By the time he'd scrambled out from beneath the truck and ran for the porch, he could already hear the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, the one armed walker twitching and still snarling at Davey standing above him, swinging the baseball bat he'd grabbed from inside the hut's door where Negan kept it and bashing the rotten thing's skull in with all the strength he could bring up.

Carl, Negan just couldn't figure out. He was a quiet child, playing with the other two just fine but somehow always holding himself back, watchful more than really participating. He'd emptied out the bag he'd taken from home that first night in the hut, distributing his clothes among the three kids as they'd made up camp in the tiny bedroom of the hut, all three of them fitting into the single bed with its moth eaten bedding. He didn't cry like the other two, not even in the dark that Davey was so scared of, scared enough that the flashlight Negan has to leave on at night for him to find any sleep is starting to diminish their battery stash quickly. He didn't recount stories from home like Paula, barely said anything at all when he wasn't directly talked to. Shock, probably, Negan told himself. Maybe the child was messed up before, with his mother leaving him behind, maybe a good way for her to get rid of him. Who knows, Negan isn't a fucking shrink after all.

Three and a half weeks, and when Negan gets the truck running to listen to the radio like he does everyday, he scrolls only through static, for minutes before he gives up and shuts the truck down, safe the fuel. He looks across the clearing at the hut, at Carl and Davey sitting on the porch whittling chess pieces from branches with the hunting knives they'd found inside the hut, Paula fashioning new lures from trinkets and pieces she'd found inside the cabinets and around the back of the house, to the lately ever growing pit of dead down the trench on the other side of the hut, and he thinks it's time to move.


	8. //Monodie//

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl is there, among Negan's man, standing back and waiting and he's wearing Rick's hat and Rick doesn't know whether he wants to run to him and hug him, or throw up right there on the ground in front of everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I still need them later (and also because I like them), Denise and Ron are both alive at this point of the story.  
> We're back to Rick's POV which is my favourite playground, so have fun.

He's early. He's damned early, Rick thinks as he sees the shadows of the trucks driving up from behind the window of Judith's upstairs bedroom. He grabs her from her cot, shushing her as she starts fussing quietly and jogs down the stairs two at a time. He runs into Father Gabriel who'd moved towards his house and thrusts her into his arms. “Hide her,” he tells him quickly, not even waiting for the nod in reply as he starts running up the street towards the gate that is still closed, Spencer on watch keeping Negan out, Spencer who hadn't been there, who hadn't been witness to the slaughter this man had brought onto their friends, Spencer who wasn't scared yet.

“You're early,” Rick grinds out as he reaches the gate, wrapping his hands firmly around the metal bars and giving it a tug to the side, ignoring Negan's smug smirk as he pushes it open, ignoring Spencer's judging eyes and the disbelieve of the Alexandrians behind him. They all hadn't been there.

“We missed you too,” Negan says, grinning. There's a walker coming up behind him, alerted by the noise of the arriving cars, and Negan turns around, takes a swing at it with a piece of debris lying around, smashing its head in and watching it drop like their friends had less than a week before at the swing of a baseball bat, and Rick can't hear his next words over the replay in his head that keeps jumping at him every other minute these days, Carl wielding that bat in the clearing, the splatter of hot blood against his cheek, Abraham's last words, Glenn's appeal to Maggie.

“Hold this.”

Rick is dragged out of his spinning thoughts when the handle of the damned bat is pushed at him, and he accepts it, wraps his fingers around the firm, smooth wood as Negan is walking past him into the safe zone, but his eyes are fixed forwards, at the trucks and men waiting on the other side of the gate to be granted entrance, swiping them for the figure he'd been waiting for, in hope and dread. And yes, Carl is there, among Negan's man, standing back and waiting and he's wearing Rick's hat and Rick doesn't know whether he wants to run to him and hug him, or throw up right there on the ground in front of everyone.

“Carl,” Rick gasps out, and the boy flinches at the sound of his name, his jaw grinding, but before Rick can say something else, Negan steps between them, right in Rick's face.

“No. You don't talk to him, you don't look at him, and I'm not gonna cut your tongue out as you don't need it to hand over my shit. Is that clear?” Negan says, his voice low and dangerous, a deranged glint in his eyes as he's crowding right into Rick's personal space, waiting until Rick lowers his eyes, giving a shaky nod. “Same goes for everyone,” he sing-songs, looking around the scattered crowd of Alexandrians that have gathered to see what's happening, the way they're eyeing Carl curiously, the same curiously disgusted look Rick himself had received after the tale of what happened at the clearing had reached them here.

Rick, the heartless man who'd left his son behind. Negan, the monster that had ordered their friends killed. Carl, his pet boy who'd done so in a heart beat. Carl, Rick's son.

“Alright, let's get this show on the road. See what kind of goodies you have in the cupboard,” Negan announces, stepping away from Rick to take a good look at the settlement before him.

“We've put aside half the supplies,” Rick starts, trying quickly to appease him, but Negan just shoots him another amused look.

“No. No Rick, you don't decide what we take,” Negan says. “I do.” He tilts his head to the side, and when he opens his mouth again, it's a shouted order. “Arat!”

They swarm out, past Rick and the people waiting in stunned silence, and he's helpless as he watches them go, as he's still fixed to the ground, staring at a bit of tarmac with his eyes burning. Carl is moving past him too, he can see it from the corner of his eyes, those long, thin legs, heavy boots, the shadow of his hat on the ground as he steps past without a word and Rick has to lock his knees to keep upright.

Negan moves up close again, his voice a lethal whisper close to Rick's ear. “You gonna show me around or not?”

Rick's fingers flex around the bat in his hand. It's got a nice weight, a good weapon for close range combat, and it would be so easy to just swing it around, hit Negan in the head with it, even just in the torso, he'd stumble and Rick could end him, right here right now, and it's tempting, so tempting, but he knows that even if he'd get his revenge, everyone else within the fence would be dead only minutes later, maybe hours if these assholes wanted to make them hurt, and they probably would. He forces his fingers to relax and nods, feeling those judging eyes on him again, and the urge to throw up is back as he walks down the road towards the houses, Negan half a step behind.

 

It's a long, exhausting morning. Rick is made to follow Negan around the streets like a dog on a leash, watching his men go through the houses, carry out things they deem worth taking, destroying others, leaving the rooms in a mess as they search for hidden treasures. Negan makes a show of it, taunting and threatening and making a joke every step of the way. Rick feels two feet tall, feels shown off to his own people who glower at him instead of the men brandishing weapons as they plunder and take, take, take.

The bat feels heavy in his hand, heavy like two corpses dragged behind him, growing heavier with every step, and the only good thing about it is that while Rick is carrying it, Negan can't club anyone to death; can't make Carl kill anyone with it.

There's a commotion around midday, down at the infirmary, Tara having the guts to raise a gun in one of the men's face in defence of their medical supplies, Denise' domain, and Rick knows it's not really what makes Negan go looking for all their guns, knows that he'd start to round them up at some point anyway, but it makes him that little bit angrier and Rick shoots Tara a dismayed look as she hands over the gun.

Two of them are missing. Two of the guns. Negan is angry, but Rick really didn't know. Didn't know who took them, doesn't know where they are hidden. Negan lets him go to round up his people, taking his bat back and settling down with Olivia who is shaking with fear to wait for the hour he's granted Rick to find them for him.

Everyone is at the church within minutes. Stepping in front of them seems like the hardest task. Demanding those guns back, their only strong defence, seeing all the outright disbelief and hatred and anger, all the futile desperation on the faces of the people he swore to protect. He feels like a fraud.

“I thought about hiding some of the guns. I did it before. I figured I could bury them out there. Maybe we don't touch them for years-” he says as he paces the front of the church, trying to convince them.

“Years?” Someone asks from among the crowd, rage in their voice and Rick has to take a deep breath not to crumble. They hadn't been there. They didn't see, he keeps repeating in his head. They don't know what those men are capable of.

They argue, they argue to keep them, and Rick knows he'd do the same had the roles been reversed, knows he would fight tooth and nail to keep the guns and what little defence they offer, but he's tired, he's exhausted and he just can't live with more blood on his hands.

In the end, he finds the guns in Spencer's house, hidden among cans of food and half-empty bottles of Bourbon. Just in time too, and the relief on his face when Olivia is let go, is still alive by the end of the hour like Negan had promised make him feel like he did the right thing, even though there are even more angry looks following him now.

Through all of this, Carl is notably absent. Rick keeps his eyes open, trying to get any kind of glimpse of the fata morgana his son has become, so much like those fever dreams and hallucinations he had about Lori all the years back now, that him being back, being alive, still seems like a crazy idea now.

“Balloons?” The amused voice of one of Negan's men draws Rick's attention as they're leaving one of the houses that looks like a battle field after the Saviours are through with it.

Enid is standing in the middle of the road, backpack over her squared shoulders, her frame tense as she's held up by three of the men, one of them holding a handful of green plastic in front of her. “You going to a party, little girl?”

“Can I keep them please?” she says, hissing out the words, her voice shaking in a mixture of anger and fear that Rick hoped never to hear from her again. She'd grown so strong over the past months, so trusting to the whole community, but the events of the last week have started to make her unravel, retreat again.

“It's just...” The man muses, crumpling the balloons in his hand. From the corner of his eyes Rick can see Ron coming out of one of the houses, staring angrily, and he hopes he doesn't interfere, doesn't act and make both of them vulnerable to the Saviours' wrath.

“Let me keep them,” Enid repeats, her voice harsh now, her fists clenched.

“Say please again, little girl.” Another taunt and the man just grins. Rick's own hand clenches around the baseball bat.

“Please.”

“Yeah, one more-”

“That's enough.”

Rick's mind spins for a moment, because he hasn't heard Carl's voice in years, apart from the lucid nightmares he's had plaguing him almost every night, and it's not his kid's voice any more, he's grown up so much, into puberty and past his voice breaking, his tone sharp and decisive, knowing he won't be disobeyed as he steps into the street, not really close but close enough that the man turns his head, shooting him a glance but his posture weakening immediately.

“Give them back,” Carl says, calm and low, but his voice still carries in the silence of the street, and for a moment, for a glimpse he doesn't look like a monster, like he killed two of their friends, just like a teenage boy, but the few words and the look he's levelled at the man are enough to make him drop the balloons and scram when Carl jerks his head, telling him to move, and Rick knows from the obedience of the man so much older than the kid that he's anything but a normal boy and everything the ruthless killer they'd encountered back in the forest. It makes his stomach turn and his eyes burn with shame.

He should have been there. He should never have stopped looking, after he found Lori. There was never any evidence of Carl's death, so they just shouldn't have stopped looking. Maybe Carl would have been different today, he definitely would have been different today if Rick would just have been there instead of leaving him to this psychopath's mercy.

 

At the end of the day, Michonne's rifle is the last weapon Rick hands over to Negan as they're getting ready to leave by the gate. She fixes him with a scathing stare as she walks proudly back into Alexandria, dropping the deer she had shot onto the tarmac by his feet, and he feels like he's lost her too.

“Look at this. This is something to build a relationship on,” Negan praises him and Rick cowers, can't meet his eyes any more. He's drained, at the end of his strength. It had been the worst day, and every time Negan encourages him, it just gets worse. He claps Rick's shoulder. “Good for you, Rick. This is reading the room and getting the message. I've said it before and I'll say it again. You, sir, are special.” It's another taunt, and Rick swallows heavily, biting back bile.

“Now that you know we can follow the rules,” he starts, forming the wish that's been burning in him for days, intensified so much throughout the day into a question. “I'd like to ask you if Carl can stay.” He wants him here, he needs him here. He can't let him go now that he's found him again, at the other end of the world, it seems. He needs to be his father again, to bring him back from whatever dark abyss his son has fallen into.

“Not happening,” Negan says before he can catch himself, the request apparently catching him off guard, but he gets himself under control quickly, his face turning into a smile. “You know what?” he asks rhetorically, his tone turning theatrical. “Let's ask the boy himself. Maybe he wants to stay! I'm not keeping him from his heart's desires after all. Carl.” The name is a shout at the end of his small speech, and Carl, who'd been helping load up the trucks turns around, stepping closer.

“Daddy-dear here is asking for you to stay,” Negan informs the boy in a sweet voice.

Carl stares at him in disbelieve for a moment, his face twitching with the muscles working in his jaw. He turns to look at Rick for a long moment, before his eyes settle on Negan.

“Let's go home,” he says calmly.

Negan chuckles. “Well, Rick, you heard the boy. Home is where the heart is.” He claps Rick's shoulder. Carl is waiting for him a few steps away. “Well, you tried. Now what you got to do is get over that tall wall of yours and try harder out there. Earn for me, you do owe me, what, six and a half years of child support after all.” He pauses, allowing his words to sink in, all those months and weeks and days Rick missed, Rick didn't take care of his boy.

“So, nobody died today. And you know what I think? I think you and I, we've refined our understanding. Let me ask you something Rick, do you want me to go?” Negan is right up in Rick's personal space, crowding him again with his large body, and Rick wants to take a step back, but he forces himself to stay his ground, Carl's eyes still on them.

“I think that would be good.”

“Than just say those two magical words.”

It's a goad. It's another way to humiliate him in the row of events of a whole day set out to do just that, humiliate him, put him in his place, and just like all day, Rick feels helpless but to comply. He swallows, the words tasting rotten in his mouth as he forces them over his lips. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you for being so accommodating, friend.” Negan chuckles, reaching out, plucking the baseball bat from Rick's slack hand. “Oh, how careless of me, you didn't think I was gonna leave Lucille, did ya? I mean, after what she did, why would you want her?” With a twist of his wrist, he swings her around and Rick flinches and for a split second he's back in the clearing, splatters of blood on his face, Maggie's sobs in his ear.

Negan looks at him like he knows, and then he moves in close once, and his breath is hot on Rick's cheek as he speaks so close to his ear. “In case you didn't notice, I just slid my dick down your throat, and you thanked me for it.” He chuckles, straightening and Rick can't meet his eyes. “Just like your son,” he adds quietly, almost as an after thought and walks away.

Rick is frozen to the spot, the noise of the engines revving far away, of the trucks leaving, of someone pulling the gate closed with a bang and rattle of metal on metal, his eyes fixed on the tarmac in front of him. “Rick?” someone says behind him, a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he crumbles to his knees at the contact, his throat burning as he throws up right there in the middle of the road.


	9. // Intermission //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment during the visit to Alexandria from Carl's POV.

Walking down the streets of Alexandria feels like a nightmare. Tidy houses, kept lawns. Everything is quiet, meticulously clean, peaceful. There's signs of children living here, of elderly people, of women who've never had to kill a living person in their lives, of men able to opt out of going out there to provide for the ones they want to keep safe. Helpless, defenceless now that the lions scaled their fences, got behind what makes this place a fortress.

Carl can't relax as he walks down the streets, watching the faces of the people living here gathered in small groups or standing alone on their porches, faces full of anger and disbelieve and yeah, fear on some but not nearly enough. His body is ready to fight at the tiniest provocation, but none comes forward to unravel some of that tension building up, muscle memory from a dozen situations he's been in during the past months. He startles at the smallest sound, and the vaguest threat, his eyes roaming the houses restlessly, but none is coming.

It's eerie, like the last memories of the street he grew up in haunting him in his dreams, everything quiet, peaceful, his mother waving from their porch, his father driving up in the sheriff's car parking it at the end of the drive, before the streets get flooded with herds of zombies, walkers appearing from every direction, his mother's screams when she is torn apart, his father's futile fight before he disappears in a group of walkers dragging him to the ground, his own hands rotten and gnarled, the taste of blood and death in his mouth when he finally screams himself awake, throat raw and cheeks burning with hot tears.

Carl reaches back, touches the gun that's tugged in the back of his belt, feels the strap around his thigh that's holding his hunting knife, and forces himself to stay calm.

It takes him a while to find Rick's house, but he eventually identifies it. Negan and Rick are in some other part of the community, so there's no one watching as Carl moves up the stairs onto the porch. The door is open, unlocked, and when he gets inside it's still undisturbed, the Saviours going house by house not having reached this end of the safe zone yet. With his hand still on the door knob, Carl stands in the entrance to the house and takes a deep breath, inhaling the clean scents of laundry, of apples in the bowl he can see on the kitchen counter, of hardwood floor and new paint; a whole different world.

He pauses, the trained response to take off his shoes making him hesitate but he squashes the thought as soon as he can identify it, knowing that once the men will be done here, it won't matter. Still, he doesn't touch, just observes as he walks through the rooms like a ghost.

The downstairs rooms are generic, boring; probably furnished before Rick and his group arrived, styled to an everybody's taste, unobtrusive. There are no pictures on the mantelpiece, some empty frames waiting to be filled, a spare shirt slung over the back of the couch, some books with a bookmark between the pages. The kitchen is clean, orderly, no used dishes in the sink.

Upstairs a couple of locked doors lead away from the landing. The first one Carl opens at the far end from the stairs is a children's bedroom, a bed, poster on the walls, everything waiting to be lived in, but a thin coat of dust has settled over everything, the air in the room stale and Carl knows that no one has lived in it for a while. He doesn't know whether to feel relieved by that.

The next door reveals a bathroom, the most luxurious thing he has laid eyes on in months: glass shower, huge mirror over a porcelain sink. The scent of shampoo and shower gel is in the air, a small smudge of toothpaste at the slope of the sink. His skin starts to itch in turn, with how long it has been since he's had a proper, thorough shower. He doesn't dare try if the water is actually hot.

The master bedroom is the first room that really looked lived in: the bed a little unmade, some stray socks next to the left side, a couple magazines and books on one of the night stands. Two people sleeping here, easy to see. Rick and someone. Lori, maybe, and Carl's stomach twists painfully. He looks around, but there are no pictures, nothing really distinguishable, and Carl turns away.

The last door on the landing leads to a nursery. Carl is already about to close the door again like with the child's room two doors down, before he stops. The air isn't stale here, there's no dust on the furniture, the bedding and blanket messy. He steps into the room, reaches out and his calloused fingers scratch along the soft fabric of the blanket, feeling the dampness of spittle along one corner of it, as if it's recently been chewed on. He draws his hand back as if burned.

Is it Rick's kid? Is it the child of whoever he's living here with? Is it Lori's?

Carl tells himself it doesn't matter as he turns around and closes the door behind himself. He's not part of this family any more.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Carl came across his family picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a small note: as I haven't read the comics, I didn't realise there were characters canonically named Davey and Paula among the Saviours. Obviously, they're not the same as my kids here. Hope that doesn't confuse you too badly. Sorry!

They've been on the road for almost eight weeks now. They lost the truck after two, after it ran out of fuel and they couldn't find any to replace it, the fuel stations they passed destroyed, the car wrecks they found already emptied out, just walkers and death left. So they start going by foot. It's slow progress, Negan carrying most of what luggage they decided to take along, the kids with a backpack each taking whatever they can carry.

The roads seem to carry on endlessly. Negan's found a map in one of the cars they came across, so he's pretty sure where they're going, keeping them on as straight a track north-east as he can while avoiding the larger settlements, going from small town to small town to avoid crowds. A walker or two they can easily take down, hell, even half a dozen are starting to not scare them any more. They found some guns in the back of a run down motel reception, two packs of ammunition, but Negan is keeping them for when things get really bad, their hand weapons much quieter and just as effective: his bat, the kids' hunting knifes, a small axe Davey found in a hardware store, a machete Carl picked up somewhere.

They squat in houses every night, making it one town a day, rather getting off the road early instead of daring to stay outside in the dark, unprotected. Farm houses, motels and diners turn out to be the best, stacks of cans often hidden in places the looters didn't find on first glance, but once they deem a place safe and set up their bedrolls for the night, the kids go exploring, coming back with hidden goods and useful items. Chocolate bars are just as fiercely fought over as meds or ammo, the kids not really understanding the difference yet.

One of the first roadhouses they come across, Carl stops in front of suddenly, frozen to the spot. He stares through the glass door into the swarming masses of zombies pushing back and forth against each other, locked in, restless but unable to escape. Negan has already moved half a block ahead before he notices that Carl isn't with them, turns around frantically until he spots the boy in front of the pub, barely contains his sudden anger as he stomps back towards him, Davey and Paula trailing behind insecurely.

“What the fuck you think you're doing?” he asks, the walkers inside bashing against the door more vehemently, lured by the sudden increase in noise.

Carl stares intently past the moving bodies. “Nothing,” he says eventually, looking at the road, not meeting Negan's eyes.

Negan curses under his breath. “Fucking move. We need to find a place for the night.”

There's a small motel further down the road, a two storey building overlooking an empty car park, looking like it had already seen its best days years before the zombie apocalypse broke out. They go up the creaky outside stairs to the landing running the length of the building, the doors with their missing numbers leading to different rooms. The one closest to the stairs is empty, the door opening into a space with two queen sized beds, a small bathroom, a tiny sitting area. Looters have been here, but it's orderly enough. Negan drops his backpack by the bed closest to the door, looking out through the window, their higher vantage point giving them a good view of the road. It'll do for the night. They raid the other rooms, but there isn't much to loot. Downstairs in the rooms that used to belong to the couple running the place – Negan takes a look at the pictures on the wall as he heads through, small town trash – they find some outdated cans of soup and a couple half empty bottles of Bourbon and Negan allows himself a long sip straight from the bottle, the first drink he's had in weeks, enjoying the burn as it goes down his throat.

The kids are in the room. Negan can hear them talk through the door he's kept open a little. He's sitting outside on the landing, motionless leaned back against the wall, watching over the empty street. There's no street lights on, but it's a clear night and the moon is enough to show any signs of the dead or the alive. The bottle of Bourbon is standing next to him on the floor, but he hasn't dared drink more than a sip or two.

The door creaks, the voices of the kids momentarily louder. With the tiny light on in the room, Negan can see Carl's shadow preceding him across the landing, the wide brim of his hat making him easily distinguishable from the other two. Negan keeps entirely still. Carl is frozen in the partial opened door, listening, assessing, before he moves carefully out onto the landing, pushing the door mostly closed, turns towards the stairs.

“You stop right the fuck now.”

Carl stops mid-step, almost overbalancing and tumbling down the stairs. He doesn't turn around though, until Negan has picked up the baseball bat that's been lying across his lap and nudged Carl's side with it.

“Sit.”

Turning, Carl moves to sit across from Negan, back against the wooden railing. He's facing his shoes, the wide brim of the hat shielding his face, but Negan won't have any of it, uses the tip of the bat still in his hand to push Carl's hat back out of his face.

“Care to explain what the motherfucking hell you were about to do there?” Carl stays quiet, his jaw clenching. Negan scoffs, rubbing his hand over his face. “There are rules, okay? Rules that keep us alive. You don't go out on your own. You don't go out after fucking dark. You don't get killed because you're a reckless little bitch, okay? Now move that mouth of yours and tell me where the fuck you were squirrelling off to.”

Carl glares at him through the dark, crossing his arms over his chest. “You wouldn't understand,” he says eventually.

“Why not fucking try me,” Negan bites back. He still doesn't get the kid, not really. Paula and Davey aren't happy, but they've kind of arranged themselves with the life they lead now. They'll survive. They try to find something to poke fun at every day, actually seem to enjoy the walking, the feel of a destination, some purpose. Carl is... different. He keeps to himself, barely interacts with the other kids apart from the most necessary, walks by himself. He seems to constantly at war with every inch of the way they move, an undercurrent of aggression in the way he talks, in the way he challenges Negan's every decision. It's exhausting. It keeps Negan sharp.

Carl sighs, his eyes focused on his shoes again. “The pub.”

Negan frowns.

Carl glances back at him, sighing once more. “I have to go back for it. There's... I've been there before, with my parents. There's a picture.”

“You'd risk your life in a pub full of crawlers in the middle of the night for a god damned picture?”

Carl scowls, pushing himself to his feet. “It's the only one left,” he says as he stomps back across the landing towards the door. “Told you you wouldn't understand.”

Negan stares into the dark night for a long time afterwards, palming the soft edges of the frayed picture in his jeans pocket.

 

The next day, he leaves Paula and Davey in the motel, takes Carl to retrace their steps to the pub. They scout out the building, then settle on the back door, making an opening into the wooden door with Davey's axe just big enough for one walker after the other to struggle through, lured by their voices. It's a messy, exhausting day, but by the end of it, covered in blood and walker gore, they have the pub cleared. They return to the motel in the afternoon, Carl carrying the framed picture, Negan with arms full of canned good the looters hadn't dared to salvage from the infested building.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back with Rick and Aaron and my take on some of 7x08.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peeeps, your comments are the shit and make me grin like a loon, thank you so much! I'm trying for a roughly weekly update right now as that seems quite doable with my current real-life state of affairs. I've figured the chapters from now on out, but I still need to write some of them, so fingers crossed I can stay with this plan. Enjoy!

Rick wakes with a start, panting harshly, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to the edges of his consciousness. He blinks into the darkness of the shed they're camping in, the dim light of the moon shining in through the tattered roof. Aaron blinks sleepily at him from where he's sitting next to the only window of the shed, passing his hours of the night watch. To his credit, Aaron doesn't say anything; doesn't ask silly questions, doesn't inquire about Rick's state of mind.

He's the only one who'd agreed to go on a run with Rick. Maggie and Sasha are at Hilltop, Michonne is avoiding him, like most of the other Alexandrians. Rosita is in a perpetual state of anger that's hard to be around. With Abraham and Glenn dead, Daryl gone, Morgan and Carol God knows where dead or alive, there aren't many left. His group, who he considered his family, has finally fallen apart, and Rick has no idea how to put them back together again. 

He's grateful for Aaron's quiet companionship, not least because he's been there, in the clearing, he'd seen everything go down, he doesn't question what the Saviours, what Negan is capable of. He never looked up to Rick like some of his old group did, and he doesn't pity him now.

“Go back to sleep,” Aaron whispers through the darkness.

Rick grunts, rubbing his hand over his face. His breathing has returned to normal again, but he still feels nauseous. Behind his eyelids, he can still see Lori's accusing gaze, Carl with the bloody baseball bat swinging from his hand. The dead eyes of his friends.

“How long 'til sunrise?” Rick asks, his voice hoarse.

“Couple hours.”

Rick grunts in reply, rolls onto his side. The sleeping bag is thin, barely any cushioning on the hard ground. His back to Aaron, at least the other can't see that he doesn't close his eyes again until the sun lights the sky a hazy blue grey.

 

The house boat is a treasure trove even though getting onto it almost gets Aaron killed, almost gets them both killed. For one long, eternal moment when Aaron disappears in the muddy water Rick wants nothing more than to dive in after him, and not come back up. He can't deal with more blood on his hands. He needs this to be over.

But they make it. As if by a miracle, they make it onto the house boat, find the rifles there. There's no ammo, but there are other supplies, enough to pacify Negan's hunger. It's already late in the day by the time they had a proper look around. There's no gas left for the engine, but there are paddles and with the wind they can drift to the shore within a couple hours, but night isn't far away, and it seems a much safer place to wait out the hours of night in the middle of the lake, and then set out with their loot early in the morning than dragging the precious cargo to the shore only to be an easy target in the dark.

They use the hours until dark to sort through the items on the boat, store everything they want to take into boxes and containers. There's a small gas burner and they heat up some cans of soup for dinner. Among the supplies are a couple jars of Moonshine and Aaron picks one up after nightfall, bringing it to the two lawn chairs they decided to use as beds. Normally, Rick wouldn't drink out on the road, but the last weeks are hanging heavy on his mind and they're the most secure they've been for days. The alcohol burns his throat, but it's a good heat and he passes it back to Aaron who takes a mouthful for himself.

It's dark by now, no moon tonight, the walkers splashing in the water, a strange symphony of groans. The boat is rocking gently. Rick feels lulled into a strange place that is neither peaceful nor complacent; numb, like a limb cut off from circulation, before the pins and needles set in.

“Can I ask you something?”

Aaron turns towards him, the lawn chair creaking beneath his weight. “Sure.”

“The others. Eric. How... how are they coping?” It's somehow easier to ask these questions in the dark, when he doesn't have to see the emotions on Aaron's face. He thinks of Michonne, of the scathing disappointment every time she looks at him, at the rage that's oozing from every pore of her body. Her glare when he took the sniper rifle he knew she'd hidden, disarming her in more than just the physical sense.

“They don't like it,” Aaron says after a long pause. “But they're adjusting.”

Rick shakes his head. “It's just... going this far, risking so much to get things for them. I wouldn't blame you if you'd hate me.”

“Rick.” Aaron's voice is quiet but firm. “I was there. I saw what happened on the road. What we're doing is gonna keep people living. We get to do that, it doesn't matter what happens to us.”

“Michonne doesn't think this is living.”

“Well, committing to a choice like this, after living how we did -- free -- I get it. It's hard. It's giving up everything, right up until your own life. But either your heart's beating, or it isn't. Your loved ones' hearts are beating, or they aren't.” Aaron falls silent, but Rick can feel his eyes resting heavy on him in the dark. “Your son's heart is still beating.”

Rick feels his whole body seize up in a painful throb. “I left him to die.”

Aaron snorts. “With all due respect, as I understand it, you were in a coma. This isn't your fault.”

It's rational, it's logical, but it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel right at all. Rick had raged and grieved, but he'd come to terms with it and moved on while his boy had been out there fighting for his life, some miracle keeping him alive this long. But still he can't feel happy or relieved about it because all he can see now is Glenn's brain splattering all over the ground every time he thinks of his boy; all he can focus on is the taunting smirk on Negan's face. Rick has failed his son like he failed his wife, like he failed Shane and Dale and Andrea; Beth, Hershel, Noah; Tyrese and the kids and Sophia.

“You adjusted and moved on, so you could live,” Aaron says, his words breaking through Rick's tumbling thoughts. “He – Carl, right? - he did too. He survived. So will we. We take what they give us so that we can live.”


	12. // Lullaby //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl hurries to meet them at the top of the next hill, falling in line with them to stare down at the herd of walkers, a mass moving steadily in their direction. Too many to count, too many to waste with the meagre arsenal they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback chapter! *points up to changed tags* This is a sad one.

It's the middle of the day, forests on both side of the country road they're wandering down, about two miles out from the next town they want to make camp at. The road is sloping, climbing over the gentle hills like waves at a beach. Carl picked up an empty can a couple miles back, rolls it down the tarmac whenever the road dips, kicks it with his foot when they climb the next. Wrecked cars litter the road: it's a sight they're used to by now. The occasional undead is hanging out of one or the other open door, shattered window, still tangled in their seat belts. Others are banging against the interior of their car trying to get out. Paula pushes the knife into one trying to grab at her, sinking the blade into its eye socket almost to the hilt.

He is hanging back a bit, looking into one of the cars at the stack of books on the backseat, wondering whether they'd be worth the trouble of getting the door open, when Negan's voice at the head of the group jars him to attention.

“Motherfucking fuck. Okay, kids, change of plans.”

Carl hurries to meet them at the top of the next hill, falling in line with them to stare down at the herd of walkers, a mass moving steadily in their direction. Too many to count, too many to waste with the meagre arsenal they have.

They have nowhere to run. The town they'd stayed the night at is over five hours away, a petrol station and walker invested roadhouse almost two. There could be huts in the woods on either side of them, but they wouldn't know where, in which direction to search, or whether the herd of walkers slowly edging towards them have already spread there too. They're sitting ducks.

Carl looks up, sees that Negan is facing away from the herd, his eyes dancing over the stretch of road they've just come from, assessing.

“Back there,” he says and then hurries down the road to a cluster of cars, already taking off his huge backpack. “We'll have to sit this one out.” There's a van with an open passenger door. Negan tries the one of the back and it opens easily. He drags it open, throws his pack onto the backseat. “Give me your backpacks. Keep your knifes.” Their stuff is quickly stored away. Negan hands both Carl and Paula a bottle of water each before he closes the doors of the van. The key is still in the ignition, no use to start the car but good enough to lock the doors and their stuff in relative safety.

“Try the trunks,” Negan orders and moves to the next cars over. The first doesn't open, but quickly they've found two cars close by of which the trunks aren't locked. They dig in, dragging the suitcases and left behind belongings out onto the tarmac, making space. “Okay boys, get in.”

Carl is quick to climb into the open trunk. It's spacious enough, a couple ratty blankets still in there. Davey is watching him fearfully.

“I don't want to,” he says, his voice shaking, but Negan won't have any of it, grabbing him around the middle and lifts him into the trunk.

“We're gonna play hide and seek, okay? Only they won't find you. Keep your voices down. I'll get you as soon as they're gone,” he says, making his voice confident, but Carl can easily hear the tight note in it.

Carl nods, scrambling back to make more room for the other boy, and a moment later they're drowned in almost darkness as Negan shuts the trunk with a loud thud.

“Tie it shut from the inside too,” he orders through the metal surrounding them, and Carl follows, quickly pulling one of the laces from his sneaker, tying it around some protruding bits of metal in the lid, securing it in the floor. “Good?” Negan asks and then he's rattling the lid of the trunk, only stepping away once he's satisfied they're properly locked in.

Carl tries to calm his harsh breathing, listens to Negan's receding footsteps, his low voice as he talks to Paula, another slamming trunk.

 

Then there's only silence.

 

For minutes on end there's nothing, nothing but his own rapid breathing, Davey's quiet whimpers beside him.

 

The car rocks, suddenly jostled by the mindless dead stumbling into it. Carl gasps, his hand groping for Davey's beside him, clutching at him as he hears the other boy sob. They're like a boat in a storm, the walkers crashing into the car, rocking it from side to side, their limbs dragging along the hull, their rattling grunts.

It's a horror show, a nightmare. The small interior of the trunk quickly heats up, the air stifling. Carl forces himself to concentrate on his breathing, closes his eyes tightly.

 

There's no telling how long it goes on. His shirts and jeans are sticking to Carl's body with sweat, the air feeling thick like molasses as he forces himself to take breath after breath. Davey is restless next to him, his body shaking with barely suppressed whimpers and sobs.

“Please, please be quiet,” Carl whispers, his own eyes stinging. He just wants out, wants for all of this to stop.

Davey doesn't seem to hear him, lost in his own world in the dark of the trunk. His hands are twitching, fingers grasping at the fabrics they're lying on, tugging. His breathing has deteriorated to fast paced gasps. Another strong jolt, the bangs of limbs hitting the trunk startles both of them, and Davey is outright crying now, loud, ragged sobs. They must be loud enough to be heard outside, drawing attention, because suddenly there are more bangs against the lid of the truck, scrabbling mindless fingers tearing at it.

“Shhh,” Carl hisses between clenched teeth, his face smudged with tears and sweat. He just wants out. He turns onto his side, slides his arms around Davey, anything to calm the other boy, make him quiet down, distract from the walkers battering at the trunk lid to get at them. Davey only cries harder, his body shaking against Carl's. “You've got to be quiet,” he urges, his own voice wrecked.

“Make it stop,” Davey sobs out, his voice too loud, too shrill, and Carl clamps his hand over Davey's mouth.

“Please,” Carl begs again. He can't do this. He just can't. There's more tears streaming down his face, and Davey is still sobbing, Carl's hand doing barely anything to quiet his sounds. He's got to do something, or the walkers will never leave, will never move away from the lure they fanthom inside this trunk. It's driving them crazy, their animal noises as they're clawing at the lid, Davey's crying. 

“I'm sorry,” Carl gasps out and pushes Davey's face into the blankets they're surrounded with, a much more efficient block for the noises he's making.

Davey struggles against Carl's hold, his elbow hitting Carl painfully in the ribs, but the boy holds on, one arm around his neck.

“Calm down, just please calm down,” Carl says through quiet sobs, doing his best to secure Davey's writhing body with his own. Davey is taller than him, but what would be an advantage in a brawl outside hinders him now, his own long limbs getting in the way in the cramped quarters.

They struggle, but Carl keeps the upper hand, his weight and the panic Davey already felt before making him clumsy, the fight slowly draining out of him.

Carl is crying quietly, his forehead resting against the other boy's neck, his arms around his now motionless body. He forces himself to take deep, steady breaths, calm himself down too. His eyes are burning, the stale air in the trunk acrid in his lungs.

 

Minutes pass; maybe hours. Carl isn't sure, concentrates on his breathing, on just getting through.

 

Davey twitches beneath him. It's a sudden jolt through one of his arms, like an electric shock before he's lying entirely still again. Another, a couple moments later.

Carl moves back a little, trying to give him some space, now that he's calmed himself down, but Davey doesn't move, doesn't make any sign of turning around.

“Davey?” Carl asks softly, barely daring to raise his voice over the noise of the passing walkers outside. He shakes the boy's shoulder gently, but Davey doesn't react, doesn't even brush him away. There are no sobs coming from him, and despite the heat in the trunk Carl can feel his blood run cold as awareness, as dread sets in. “Davey,” he says again, but the boy doesn't answer in words, a wheezing sound leaving his throat as he jerks.

Grappling hands, Davey's body twisting in the cramped space next to Carl, the strange sounds he makes echoing the noises of the dead that are still banging against the car's exterior. Carl shrieks, the scream of terror that's been lodged in his throat ever since they saw the herd from the top of the hill hours ago finally breaking free, muffled and drowned out by the walkers surrounding them, closing in on the car again, fingers prying at the lid of the trunk.

Davey – no, the body next to him, that's not Davey any more, just another threat – doesn't move like a human being, the body twisting, unseeing eyes, hands grasping for Carl, for his heat and his pulse and Carl pushes him back with elbows and feet, the unlaced sneaker coming loose from his foot, trying to get as much space between them. The... thing is biting at him, catching the hem of his shirt sleeve and Carl screams again. He hasn't got his hunting knife, it had been strapped to the backpack he dropped into the back of the van, but his machete is attached to his belt. He's almost lying on top of it though, and he twists and writhes, trying to grab at it, trying to find himself a weapon. When he brings it up to chest level, Davey's jerking body impales itself on the blade, chest first, but it doesn't stop his grabbing hands, his biting jaws.

Carl is crying, the wetness of tears and snot all over his face. He draws the machete back, having trouble to free it from Davey's chest, but he doesn't even feel the pain when the edge of the blade slides against his own lower arm, leaving a cut behind. The sudden stink of warm blood adds to the rank interior of the trunk and the thing goes wild next to Carl, launching itself at him. Carl grabs the machete with both hands, and the blade sinks itself into the soft skin below Davey's chin, stabbing past his jaw bones, through his tongue and the roof of his mouth into his brain.

 

“Fuck.”

There's voices outside that Carl should recognize, the car swaying slightly as hands pry at the lid of the trunk, a knife stuck into the gap to cut away what's holding it closed, manipulating the lock. 

Carl barely registers any of it. Breathing is hard with the weight of the body that is cold by now lying on top of him, the air stale and rank inside his cage. He feels damp, his skin clammy, and his teeth shatter. He doesn't move even as the lid is finally pushed open, a gust of night air hitting the side of his face. The brightness of a flash light burns his eyes but he doesn't blink, not when the voices are louder, more distinct now, Negan's gruff words and Paula's crying. Davey's body is lifted off him and then hands reach for him, and Carl doesn't push them off, there's no more fight left in him.

 

Negan makes them hole up in the van they used for storage during the herd. Carl barely remembers any of it, just the warmth of Negan's arms around him and the steady sound of his breathing, Paula curled up with her head against Negan's shoulder next to them.

 

They bury Davey's body the next day at the side of the road. A small heap of stones cover the shallow grave Negan got up to dig with his bare hands in the grey hours of dawn, a makeshift wooden cross stuck in the middle. Davey's hunting knife, one of the pretty lures Paula has made of trinkets dangling from it. No name, no date. Neither of them knows what month it is anymore.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And back catching up with Carl and Negan!

The next days, Carl is like a ghost. He leaves the Sanctuary early, going on supply runs with Simon or Arat, and Negan would be a fool to tell him not to when he's never got into Carl's business during the last two years. They return at different times during the afternoon, always before nightfall, but Carl barely acknowledges Negan's presence when they unload the trucks, hides away in the armoury, does inventory, whatever he can think of. Negan tries not to follow his moves through the Sanctuary too obviously not to alienate him further, but it's hard when all he gets during the day are glimpses here and there, a nod as he's passed.

The nights are different. They remind Negan of the weeks after they lost Davey, after they buried Paula; the first nights after clearing out the compound they'd transform into the Sanctuary, both of them restless about sleeping with other people around, taking turns so one could keep watch while the other slept, not yet trusting they'd be safe from assault.

Negan goes to bed late, pouring over maps of the area, making plans with his higher ranking Saviours for the near future: they need to plan their next visit to Alexandria, and Hilltop is making trouble too, the man in charge there, Gregory, a sly snake Negan doesn't trust as far as he could throw him. He does inventory, assessing the weapons they picked up from Alexandria, takes a look at the storable items, always planning for the next winter, considers new outposts, whether it'll be useful to take the satellite station back.

By the time he switches off the lights he's dead tired, not fucking thirty any more after all, so at first he doesn't notice Carl sneaking in, crawling into bed next to him, or leave again in the morning before dawn. It's during the third night that he wakes from some kind of dream, turns over only to find Carl curled up with his arms around one of the pillows. He reaches out, scrubs his hand over Carl's hair and the boy pushes into it unconsciously, makes a soft sleepy noise without waking. In the morning he's gone yet again.

The next night, Negan wakes before dawn. The curtains around the bed aren't drawn, and neither are the drapes in front of the huge windows. The sky outside is slowly turning purple. Negan yawns and stretches, feeling the dip in the mattress next to him before he turns around to see Carl curled up there, facing the wall. Negan scoots over, wrapping his arm around Carl's waist and pulls him close.

Carl wakes slowly. He buries back against Negan's body, sighing deeply with his eyes still closed. It's only once life has returned to all his limbs that he starts to slowly extricate himself from Negan's arms.

“Oh no you don't,” Negan murmurs sleepily. He tightens his arms around Carl's body, shifts one of his legs over Carl's.

“Come on, old man, there's work to do,” Carl says but there's no heat behind his words and the hands with which he's pushing at Negan's arms are gentle rather than insistent. 

“You've been slippery as an eel these last couple days,” Negan says. His nose is nudging the back of Carl's neck, tickled by his soft hair. “I don't like it.”

Carl laughs softly, more awake now. “I'm sure you've got enough wives to keep you company.”

“Suddenly not jealous any more?” Negan asks back.

He can feel Carl roll his eyes rather than see it.

“It's okay if you need some space.”

Carl nods. “I'm thinking of taking the satellite station back.”

“Wouldn't be a bad move,” Negan agrees. “Arat asked about it too. You two can work something out. After our next trip to Alexandria.”

Carl stiffens at the mention. “Do I need to go back there too?”

Negan can't help the quiet laugh. “But of-fucking-course. Your daddy-dear still owes us dinner. Never got around to it last time.”

Carl pushes at Negan's arms, making enough room for himself to turn onto his back, searching Negan's eyes. “You wouldn't have made me stay there, would you?”

Negan snorts. “And give up my best little soldier? Fat chance.” He leans in for a possessive, sensual kiss. “I've got something for you.”

Carl watches curiously as Negan rolls back across the mattress to grope below the bed, retrieving the camcorder he'd taken with him from Alexandria. Carl greets the item with a raised eyebrow. “Kinky.”

“Not by your standards.” Negan can't help the leer, knows he deserves the slap Carl delivers against his chest. Negan turns the little display of the camera so that Carl can see it and replays the video saved on the chip inside. Rick's bearded face appearing on screen, his voice tinny through the small speakers. Carl's face shutters completely. Negan has seen the video a couple times now, taken notes on all the people shown, the ones he's also seen in Alexandria, the ones he presumes dead, so his attention is focused on Carl rather than the screen, on the tiny flickers of emotion he's allowing to show in his eyes. He takes the camera from Negan's hands to get a better look.

Rick's part of the interview ends, but Carl keeps watching, his body entirely still, nothing of the urge to get up and out of Negan's room left now. At one point, the screen shows a pixie-ish woman with mouse grey hair, a toddler on her lap.

Carl's eyes narrow. “There's a nursery in Rick's house,” he says.

Negan shakes his head. “There was no sign of the kid.”

“A used nursery,” Carl insists, and Negan knows what Carl is saying, knows that Carl wouldn't relay false information.

“Really.”

Carl nods. His eyes return to the screen. To the woman holding the toddler, to her tiny voice saying the child isn't hers, that its mother is dead. “Lori?” Carl asks, but Negan can only shrug.

“There wasn't a sign of her either,” Negan confirms but Carl already knew that.

Carl presses the stop button on the camcorder, closes the display. “Can I keep it?”

Negan can't help the smirk. “For now.” He leans in, noses along Carl's jaw. “You could give it back to me with something really worth watching on it.” He laughs, knowing he deserves the next slap as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too sure about the order of the chapters but I enjoy the rhythm of switching between a flashback that ties in with the present rather than following either storyline too long. Hope the flashbacks aren't boring you people. This chapter is a bit of a breather; fair warning ahead, the next chapter will get really dark. Next chapter will come a little early, probably Friday night before I head on vacation for a week.
> 
> Btw, with writing so much plot I miss writing smut, so if you feel like leaving me a prompt, I'm all ears here or an tumblr.


	14. // Lullaby 2 //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where's Paula?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the warnings! This chapter is daaaark. Another flashback. Read the changed tags for a heads-up, or leave me a comment and I'll reply back with a detailed summary of the chapter. I don't think this is worse than what the comics/show did in season 3/4, but yeah, if you want a more detailed warning, let me know.
> 
> Gonna go on vacation abroad from tomorrow to next week, so my wifi accessability will be scarce, so it will take longer for me to reply to comments.
> 
> Love you all!

Negan wraps Lucille in barbed wire the night they lose Paula. No, that isn't quite right.

 

They've already come a long way from Atlanta, and Negan is more and more confident that they actually have a shot to make it to Washington, to where his family has been living in Laurel. If any of them are left. Richmond is the next big landmark on their way north-east, but they're weary of going into the cities, the past having shown them that lingering on the outskirts and making their way around the smaller communities will keep them clear of larger herds.

Anderson Highway is crossing their journey north. They've been running low on supplies – water, food, everything – for a couple days now, the last settlements they raided all looted and emptied, nothing useful for them to scavenge. If they don't find anything soon, they'll have to try hunting again, use up some of the precious bullets they have. It's something they try to avoid. It's an easy decision to follow the broader road after the small country roads they've been taking.

The South Creek shopping centre is a grouping of low buildings: fast food joints, a bank, a grocery store, pharmacy. Negan's eyes catch on the signs advertising the auto supplies store with its busted windows, the cars abandoned in the car parks between the buildings. They haven't had a proper ride in weeks, but maybe with the supplies they could get one of the things to move for more than a couple miles, make some real advance North. It's almost winter again, their second, and he'd hoped to long be in Washington by now. He doesn't want to spend it on the road, but the thought of holing up in some community like they did last year, among strangers that don't get it, that don't understand what's at stake, scares him. Those places are death traps, they aren't safe with their thin fences and meagre supplies.

They've developed a bit of a routine for raids like these. The stray walkers roaming around the parking lots are quickly stabbed down. They give the buildings a sweep to make sure there aren't any masses hiding, then settle on the building they want to scavenge from, leaving the walkers further away undisturbed until they get too close, only then picking them down one after the other as they propose a threat.

Maybe it's the prospect of a car, of going faster; maybe it's the routine making them sloppy; maybe it's the fact that they're only watching out for walkers, the only threat they'd had to deal with for so long now.

Whatever it is, it's making them careless, and when Negan returns from the depth of the car supplies store, his eyes gliding over Carl who is sitting in the shade of the overhanging roof whittling a stick with his hunting knife, Paula is gone.

“Where's Paula?”

Carl looks up from under the brim of his hat, frowning as his eyes flit across the parking lot. Paula should easily be visible: one year older than Carl, she's shot up like a weed over the past summer, her narrow shoulders and the shock of blonde curls usually an eye catcher in the bleak surroundings of the road. “She wanted to check out a car over there, she said she's seen some suitcases in the back that looked untouched.”

Negan rounds the cars going in the direction Carl pointed out. He doesn't shout for her, noise is just too great a lure for the stray walkers all over the area, no matter how much he wants to call out her name and see her head pop up from between the cars. He finds the suitcases: one is drawn out of the car, opened on the tarmac. It's filled with male clothes, hastily looked through, left in a messy heap. The other suitcase is opened in the trunk of the car. It's filled with female clothes. They're a little boring, at least two sizes too big for Paula and more fitting of an older woman, but they've been sorted through more carefully, some basic items folded and set to the side.

Carl appears next to him, observing closely. The stick he's been playing with is gone, his knife in a tighter grip now. “Her backpack is gone.”

“But her shoes are here,” Negan says, kicking at the coloured pair of sneakers on the ground. “Fuck.”

They search the parking lot, the empty fast food stores, take a look at the larger grocery store beyond the sea of abandoned cars. A pharmacy in one of the side buildings catches their eyes with its broken windows. Half a dozen walkers are sprawled in its vicinity, recently wasted, not yet decomposed, and the sight makes Negan's stomach drop. Others had been here, and not long ago. Other people. Negan hates other people.

They have been on their own for too long, they've become careless. By nightfall they've combed across the parking lot and the buildings again, but without any luck. Paula is gone, and they've no idea where to look for her. The back of the car supply store is as good as any to set up camp in for the night. Negan is antsy, securing the door and then pushes a table in front of the small window high at the back of the storage room they're in, climbing up. It gives him a view of the highway outside, though it's barely visible in the darkness. Negan takes up first watch, ordering Carl to sleep, but when the sun rises, neither of them has slept at all.

“I'm not gonna go on without her,” Carl says over a shared can of peaches and some strips of beef jerky, voicing what they've both been thinking.

Hiding their backpacks and loot in the depths of the storage room, they set about exploring the area up and down both sides of the highway.

 

It's more by chance and luck than anything else that they finally find a lead. Their exploration has brought them up a side road spearing off from the highway. They're already on the verge of turning around when the scent of something burnt catches in their noses.

The road ends in a couple three storey buildings with flat roofs, some lower side buildings, fences running off towards the woods. A school compound, buildings housing classrooms, sports facilities, housing for a janitor. It's around that area that movement catches their eyes and they duck away into the shadows of trees on either side of the road.

Watching, they wait.

By the time afternoon is turning into evening, they've seen almost a dozen people around the compound, some on look-outs, a car full of them returning from a run, others mingling outside. Most of them are in their mid-twenties, some older, all men, but they don't seem militarised, no clear pattern or order to their behaviour.

“We wait until after dark, sneak in?” Carl asks, restless from so many hours crouched in the undergrowth.

“I don't know how they wouldn't see us,” Negan replies, his eyes still fixed to the buildings. During the day it turned out the larger school buildings are abandoned, no movement in them, many windows broken, the doors chained shut. The side building the men use as base is squatting low down the side of one of them, what looks like a gym or hall in the building behind it. Carl and Negan had moved around the side of the building for a bit earlier, trying to get a feel for it. There's another door down the back, one set of outside stairs leading to a basement entry along one side, but they're both guarded like the more frequented front door. The walls are bare, only a band of small, flat windows directly beneath the edge of the roof down the side of the whole building, some cranked open for air, some now giving off the glow of neon lights from the inside as dusk settles around them. “And we don't even know if Paula is in there.”

“Paula, that's her name?” A voice rises behind them, along with the metal click of a gun being cocked.

Carl starts violently next to him. Negan closes his eyes, bites down sharply on his tongue. He turns his head to look over his shoulder, seeing three guys, one with a handgun pointed at him, the other two holding shotguns.

“And we already wondered how a pretty little thing like her managed to survive on her own. Birdie didn't say a single word about her dad and brother.”

His mind reeling, Negan stares at the ground, trying to make his brain catch up with the sudden change of events. He wets his lips. “You got my kid?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet. “You found her?”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, Papa Bear, go on show us your hands,” the leader of the three says and Negan complies, holding out his hands, the handle of his baseball bat hanging dangling from between his thumb and forefinger, trying to make himself unthreatening. “Rich, Sam, check them for guns.”

They take Negan's handgun from his belt, his baseball bat, Carl's handgun from his thigh holster and his machete. They search the small backpack Negan had taken along, grab the two packs of ammo, their water bottles and the food, the medkit.

“Nothing much, Chief,” Rich or Sam, Negan has no idea and doesn't care, says as he steps back, leaving them defenceless.

“Please, my girl. You got her?” Negan asks, his voice low. He can feel Carl's eyes on him, but the boy is smart enough to stay quiet. “We thought she was gone, got lost or something. Please.”

Chief laughs. “Oh, we found her alright. Let's get this family reunited, shall we?” His goons laugh, but they're visibly relaxing, feeling entirely in control. Good. Negan is willing to go along with that until they've got Paula.

They're marched into the building, past yielding guards. “Look, we found the girl's family,” one of their captors calls out, getting a laugh and a whistle in reply. “Certainly hasn't got her good looks from her daddy,” someone calls back. There's laughter, and Negan grinds his teeth, lowers his head as to not make it obvious that he's scanning the hallway they're lead down, the half open and open doors on either side of it, the simple layout of what must have been a mostly storage building.

The deranged smile the guy they had called Chief shoots them as he stops next to one of the doors has the hair at the back of Negan's neck stand up. “Well, here you go.”

It's a boiler room, little more than that. Dim light from the dirty light bulb overhead throws shadows over the bare pipes and cables on the walls and low ceiling. The damp air is rank, and Negan shudders, instinctively putting himself between Carl and the room as he's trying to take it all in.

A stained mattress on the concrete floor looks like it's covered by a heap of rags, if it weren't for the writhing body twisted into the dirty fabrics. Paula is naked, her skin bruised purple and yellow, her wrists tied to one of the pipes above her head. She is twisting and turning, trying to free herself, fighting against the restraints.

“Stay the fuck back,” Negan bellows at Carl. He hurries across the room, his leather jacket shrugged off, covering Paula as he drops to his knees next to her. She is chewing on a strip of fabric tied as a gag around her head, the dirty cloth muting her grunts, her skin a garish grey around the bruises. She turns her face towards Negan, straining upwards. Her eyes are milky, unseeing, unfocused.

“You fucking monsters,” Negan roars. He's seeing red, his ears are ringing with rage as he pushes himself to his feet, but before he can do anything, the door has falling closed, the loud click of the lock. “I'm going to fucking skin you.” He bangs his fist against the door, kicks it with his boot.

There's only laughter from the other side. “Cool down, bro,” Chief says through the metal. “We'll give you some time for your family reunion.”

Negan kicks the door again, cursing loudly.

“Is she dead?”

Carl is standing next to the door, his back pressed against the wall. He's pale, his eyes wide staring at the mattress, at what Paula has become.

“Don't look,” Negan tells him, trying to get himself under control, but his voice is wavering. “You don't have to look.”

“We have to-” Carl takes a step forwards, shaking visibly. “We can't leave her,” he starts again before his voice gives out.

Turning away from the door he is still staring daggers at, Negan takes a deep breath. He has to get a grip on himself, he has to get this done or they'll be tortured and turned into walkers too. But first... Turning around to face Paula feels like the hardest thing. He crosses the small space, drops to his knees next to the mattress, welcoming the sharp pain when his knees connect with the hard floor. Paula gets more agitated, straining towards him, sensing him, smelling him maybe, the same desperate hunger distorting her so familiar features as they've seen it on all the faceless strangers outside.

The knot that's tying the rope to the pipes above her head has pulled tight with her struggling and he has to dig at it with his fingernails, cursing as he works to get it open. As soon as its loose, her thin wrists slip from the rope, her hands immediately reaching for him, fingers scrabbling. Her jaws keep working uselessly around the gag.

“Shh, it's okay, we're here now,” Negan murmurs, but his voice is breaking as he pulls her onto his lip, wraps her more firmly into his leather jacket. It's restraining her arms like this, but she doesn't even seem to notice, her face pushing for his chest, his neck. He tries to pacify her, to calm her down, bur it's useless. He strokes over her curls, rocking back and forth.

The room is blurry through the film of hot, angry tears and Negan blinks a couple times, trying to clear his vision, looking around. It's bleak, utilitarian, but it's not emptied completely: his eyes fall on a rusty toolbox among a pile of brooms and sweepers.

“Bring me that box,” Negan barks, his voice loud to cover the tremor in it.

Carl starts, stumbling over his own feet. He looks a mess, but complies, dragging the box across the small space of the room until he's next to Negan.

“Get over there again,” Negan orders as he uses one hand to open the box, trying to hold Paula with the other.

“No,” Carl says softly, but with an icy calm. “No,” he repeats when Negan looks at him. His eyes and cheeks are red from crying but his eyes are like steel and he doesn't budge despite the shaking of his limbs.

Carl opens the rusty toolbox, rooting around its contents. No knives, no hidden gun, just some pliers and saws and other tools. “Here,” he says and presses the handle of a screw driver into Negan's hand. “There isn't any- that's the best,” he says weakly.

“It's okay.” Negan isn't sure who he's trying to assure, and he's pretty certain it's not helping, not at all. He grasps the screwdriver tightly. “I'm so sorry, Paula.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, trying to hold her as still as possible, the tip of the screwdriver poised at the soft skin at the base of her neck. He hates how the years taught him the easiest ways to stab someone's skull, all the angles at which to get past bones that protect the brain. “I'm so sorry.”

It takes two stabs before Paula's body goes limp in his arms. There's sudden silence now that she's stopped fighting, her hungry, muffled grunts gone. Negan's ears are ringing and he keeps clutching her tightly, unable to let go. Carl's slight weight bumps against his side, his arms wrapping around Negan's biceps. He wants to comfort the boy, hug him, but he can barely get a grip on himself.

 

“A shame you did that, she was almost still warm,” Chief says when he opens the door what feels like hours later.

Negan looks up. They sit with their backs to the far wall, Carl dozing in a hazy state next to him. He's too exhausted to fight. “Please,” he says, his voice like gravel. “Let me bury my kid.”

“I don't know, you still got that other bugger up and running,” Chief taunts, and Negan bristles, adrenaline rushing his system again.

“Come on, that's enough,” an older guy behind Chief says. “You had your fun.”

“I just want to hear him say please one more time,” Chief whines, but then throws his hands into the air. “Whatever. You show them out.” He turns around, disappearing down the hallway.

“Get moving,” the man says gruffly, and Negan doesn't wait to comply, pushing himself up, jostling Carl awake in his haste. They have bundled Paula's body into one of the sheets, and Negan picks her up gently.

“We need our guns,” Carl urges as they're lead down the hallway, half a step behind Negan, two guys with shot guns behind them.

“Your not getting your shit back.” The older guy is leading the way in front of them, looking at them over his shoulder.

“But we have to defend ourselves,” Carl argues, and there's something in his tone that must sway the guy, call out to some long ago memory maybe. “Please, you're killing us.”

“Stop,” he says, then disappears through one of the doors on the side, returning a moment later with Lucille and Carl's machete. “Go on.” It's not far down to the front doors now. “You can have your toys back. We'll keep the rest of your shit. See how you do with them.” He pushes the door open and cool night air blows in their faces, fresh after the rank interior of the building. “You walk away. You bury your kid somewhere and then you keep walking, kapish? We see you again, we done playing.”

 

It takes them hours to return to the shopping centre. By the time the sun rises, Negan is carrying Carl on his back, the boy's legs around his waist, his arms around his shoulders, his arm breath against Negan's neck reminding him to go on, keep going, even though the weight of Paula's corpse in his arms makes him want to just lay down and stop breathing.

Back at the car supply store, he finds himself a spade. Nature has reclaimed what the landscapers once manufactured of the surrounding woods. Negan crosses from the tarmac into the trough towards the trees. There's an area full of sunlight and small flowers among the thigh high weeds. It's where he starts digging. Carl brings him a bottle of water and some beef jerky from the supplies they had hidden in the store, sets it down a couple paces away, but Negan doesn't touch it until he deems the grave deep enough and the high sun has made him break out in a sweat.

“I've found her a dress,” Carl explains when Negan comes to pick up Paula's body. He is too numb to cry, despite the pain in his chest. Carl has dressed her in a colourful flowery summer dress a couple sizes too big, has washed her face and arms. She looks like a broken doll when they place her at the bottom of the pit.

 

That night, Negan wraps Lucille in barbed wire he finds in the back of the car supply store. He packs a bag with chains and locks and a crowbar. He checks their left over firearms, selects some handguns, a rifle. Takes packs of ammo. He hasn't slept in two nights, barely got any shut eye before that, but his grief has turned his mind into tunnel vision, almost like he's leaving his body, watching himself act from the outside.

“If you think you can go alone, you're wrong,” Carl says when Negan shoulders the backpack.

“I'll be back tomorrow,” he dismisses, but Carl steps into his way.

“And if not? You're not leaving me.” He stands his ground, all 4 foot 6 of him.

“I'm not gonna let them rape any more kids,” Negan says bluntly.

Carl stares back unwavering. “You think I want that?”

“Fine, grab your stuff.”

 

They sneak up to the building in the middle of the night, hidden by darkness and thick clouds in front of the moon. The doors at the back and side of the building they jam shut with the crowbar, tying the chains around the handles, locking them shut.

Only two guys, one on the low roof and one lounging sleepily next to the main door, are on guard.

“You take out the one on the roof. I take the one next to the door,” Negan says, pressing the rifle into Carl's hand. “They are monsters. Just like the walkers, okay?”

Carl nods. He's pale and quiet, but there's focus in his eyes.

“You stay out here. Everyone who comes through that door, you shoot.” Negan pushes the thought that he's instructing a twelve year old to kill to the back of his mind. This is the new world order. You kill or you die.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://zeraparker.tumblr.com/), I'm new to this fandom and would love to talk to you crazy people.


End file.
